Behind the Lens of His Eyes
by DuchessRaven
Summary: The longawaited sequal to Red Haired Girl! Spiderman 2 from MJ's POV. Chapter SEVEN is up!
1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: first of all, thanks to everyone who wrote asking for this story, it was very flattering and very guilt-inducing :P sorry it took so long but I'm very, very busy. This story is really more of a rough draft than anything else. When it is finished, the whole thing may be polished and reposted, so please comment plenty so I'll know how to fix it up. Thank you

BEHIND THE LENS OF HIS EYES

CH 1

How strange it is to see your own face day in and day out, on the busiest street corner in New York City? I have never pegged myself as much of a celebrity type. Although some recent events in my life have given me a small reputation among the neighbors, that did not make me famous by far, or even well-known. Far from it, in fact. I like to think those things do not have anything to do with my face hanging high above Bleaker Street, advertising the beauty and youth promised by Emma Rose Perfume. Nor did it have anything to do with the recent review in the newspaper--"…among the many talents on stage in the recent opening of The Importance of Been Ernest, aspiring young actress Mary Jane Watson gave a stunning performance as Cecily Cardew, along with…"

Time has passed and in such a big city news come and go. Some things about me have been forgotten and new things remembered. I'm fine with that. I need to leave my past behind and start anew, although sometimes forgetting is much harder. My name is Mary Jane Watson. There was once a time when I was weak and sad and desperate, because life had so little to offer a poor girl in New York, living with a mother who had no hope left in life and a stepfather who drank and yelled and did little more. I sought love and found it in all the wrong places, mostly in the arms of young men who did not share the same world as me. There are two men that I feel I will never be able to tear myself from. One of them is Peter Parker, the typical boy-next-door with stunning blue eyes and a promise to always be my friend and nothing more.

The other is the web-swinging stranger known as Spider Man to the city, a menace to the newspapers, a hero to those he's saved, and just a man to me. I have shown him my feelings on a rainy night, without ever seeing his face. But even long after the kiss broke, something in my mind was convinced he had blue eyes, the same ones I would gaze into at Norman Osbourn's funeral.

Funny how life can change so much in such a short period of time.

I've changed. Some people don't like to change, they want things to be the same forever and ever. But sometimes that was not an option. I couldn't satisfy myself been a common girl hidden in an enormous world, crying herself to sleep every night because she's too afraid to venture out. I entertain myself with the idea that I've become stronger, and much older in two years. The world seems to agree with me, at least the people who admire the billboards do.

And so there's my picture, hanging there everyday with my smile. But as I walk down Bleaker Street and glance at it out of the corner of my eye, I cannot recognize the face. The person looking down at New York City is beautiful, vibrant, careless, and surrounded by an air of purity. That was not me. On the inside I'm still a little girl, so young and scared, and on the outside I'm a woman fighting for answers every step of the way. I no longer have delusions of finding grand romance or love, nor do I have to wear my fingernails to the root washing dishes to pay for measly expenses. I've come one step closer to what I wanted for myself and know exactly how much I went through for it.

I've grown up, but I cannot forget.

Not his eyes.

The only one who looked up as I walked into the bustling changing room was Joann, the sweet, bubbly brunette who played the part of Gwendolen. She called to me from across the room where our makeup bureaus sat. Smiling faintly, I made my way to her and began to pull my costume from the rack standing by the wall.

"Where have you been, M.J.?" she asked as I took a seat in front of the mirror next to her and began to fix my hair. "Robby was about to blow a fuse."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not late. It's still half an hour before the curtain goes up."

"You know Robby--he's having one of those days again," she replied. Yanking all of my hair into a bushy bunch, I pinned it up awkwardly, only to have it fall to one side in a mess, hanging over my should like a tangled horsetail. "Here, let me do that."

I handed over the pins and turned my back to her. Doing anything "lady-like" has never been my department. "Thanks, Joann. So what's with Robby?"

"You know my theory," Joann said around a mouthful of pins.

"That's your theory for everything, though."

She tugged at my hair forcefully and set it in a perfect bob on top of my head and stuck a pin into it. Something about the whole ordeal--the makeup, the pretty costumes, the hair--reminded me of the last World Unity Festival I attended, high above Time Square on the arm of Harry Osbourn; rich, handsome Harry Osbourn who had picked a common girl and fixed her up like a princess to present to his father, the temperamental king. I sighed softly.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. What were you saying?"

"My theory," Joann said with the tone of a professor stating the fact of life to her students, "is that sexual frustration causes bad temper and thus bring harm to those around the afflicted. "Therefore" --she stuck the last pin into my hair-- "Robby needs to either get laid or quit taking it out on us."

"Joann!"

"I'm just saying! There's a nice broom closet downstairs and we both know he's been making eyes back an' forth with that stagehand with the bellybutton ring. He needs to get it over with and give us a break."

"And you're the expert on that?" I asked with a playful smirk.

"You know I am," she replied with all seriousness and adjusted the front of my itchy white corset. Every woman in the play wore frilly dresses that made me want to scratch just looking at them, though I do photograph pretty well all dolled up. "Fix yourself girl, you're gonna flash the whole audience." I scowled and began to tighten up the laces as she went back to primping herself. "By the way, your _lover_ stopped by earlier," she said, putting extra emphasis on the word.

"You mean John?"

"Yes, I mean your lover. He came by to drop off those chocolates." She pointed at a gold-wrapped box sitting on the corner of her bureau, applying lipstick skillfully with her other hand, without even looking into the mirror. "Do you want them this time or should I help myself as usual?"

"Help yourself." I nudged the box toward her. John always sent sweets even though I've told him several times I'm not very fond of them. But it was very flattering to knew he cared. He was kind and gentle in a very old-fashioned, traditional way.

Joann grinned. "Good thing I already did," she said as she opened the box, which was already half-empty, picked out a chocolate and popped it into her mouth, not smudging the fresh lipstick one bit. "Tell him caramel next time. Nuts get in my teeth."

"Will do."

A thundering of footsteps told us Robby the stage manager was coming. He was a portly man with small eyes who always seemed to be in a hurry. Aside from running he stage he was also the assistant director, which actually meant he pretty much handled the show since the director, though definitely talented, was slightly senile and forgetful and occasional stopped to talk to someone named "Boris" that none of us have ever seen. Joann and I touched up our costumes quickly and sat like perfect little ladies as he rounded the corner and glanced at us. I smiled way too broad and knew Joann was doing the same.

"Ten minutes ladies!" he announced. "And don't let me catch any loose laces this time." We nodded and he walked away, but turned back suddenly after two steps. "And Miss Lynch, kindly keep your theories to yourself!"

Joann snorted. "I don't know where you get off making your wild allegations Robby," she said smartly. "But I keep telling you, I'm the good one."

Robby glared at her, then at me, but I kept smiling. Looking innocent was a talent of mine. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

A moment passed after he disappeared out of sight, Joann and I just stared at each other, mouths open in wide grins, and without warning, we both burst out laughing. Joy and carelessness was a treat, even if it came between the short, bustling moments of a busy day and stayed for three fleeting seconds.

The Importance of Been Ernest was a comedy from the late 1800's written by Oscar Wilde. It talked about two men who both pretended to be someone named Ernest to earn the affection of their respective loves, two women who happen to both dream of marrying someone, anyone, named "Ernest". The men often left their homes to visit these women and tell their families that they are visiting sick friends, and called the trick "Bunburying". The reviews called it a "trivial comedy for serious people", which I suppose was an accurate description. Mountains of small lies filled the story from the beginning to the end, making the whole thing a comic relief in my eyes.

Personally, I found quite a few of the characters to be fairly shallow, including my own--the pretty, young, innocent rich girl named Cecily. She was filled with illusions of grandeur and dreams of been taken away by a man, named Ernest to live happily ever after. Having had those flights of fancy myself and known the pains of love, Cecily seemed like the part of myself that never grew up, a little girl who doesn't want to let go of her dreams. I empathized with her, and perhaps through that found the joy of been her.

I met Joann at the audition roughly five months ago. Brown hair bouncing, she sat across from me in the waiting room, fidgeting with her script nervously and occasionally stood up to walk around and practice her lines.

"This is ridiculous," she was ranting to no one in particular, "look at this, what were men thinking back then?"

As everyone else in the room was trying hard not to hear her, I looked up curiously. "What are you talking about?"

"The characters," she said, pointing at the script, "they're not listed in order of importance, but by gender! They purposefully list the men first and the women last. This is why women are always having to fight for their rights, what has this world come to?"

Her brashness and overreaction was somehow like a magnet for me. I smiled with amusement. "Actually," I said slowly, "the play was written over a hundred years ago, so I think we're actually come pretty far since then."

She stopped pacing, seeming to suddenly realize what year she lived in. "Oh," she said dumbly and propped down into a seat next to mine. It was then that I got a better look at her. She was taller and slimmer than I was, wearing mostly black, long brown hair flowing. From my guess she was about four to six years older than me but never lost her rebellious teens. "By the way Mary Jane, I'm Joann."

I blinked. "How did you know my name?"

She reached over and flicked the plastic tag pinned to my jacket with her fingers. "Name tag."

It was my turn to feel dumb. "Oh yea, of course."

"Don't mind me, I talk too much. If I don't get a part I think I'll go be a sports announcer, plenty of opportunities to talk then. Maybe soccer."

"I don't mind," I said with a shrug. Something about her relaxed the heart inside my chest that has been pounding loudly for four days straight, ever since I caught wind of the audition. "So what part are you up for?"

She crossed her index and middle fingers on both hands. "Hoping for Gwendolen. But if that doesn't work out I'll take Prism. Not Bracknell though, I refuse to play part of a shriveled old lady."

"Prism's an old lady, too."

"She is?" Joanna quickly flipped through her script. "Dang it I knew I should've read the whole thing. At least she writes a racy book." She looked up at me. "She does write a racy book right?"

"Yes I think so."

"Oh good, I can live with Prism then." Closing her script, she studied me up and down for a second. "Five bucks say they make you Cecily."

I coughed. "What?"

"Yeah, five bucks say they make you Cecily. You got the look, why not?"

"Well, that would be great but how do I know…"

"Just gotta believe. How about it? Five bucks."

The gleam in her eyes was probably what gave me the confidence to win the part. I matched her mischievous smile and said, "you're on."

One hour later we emerged from the audition room and walked into the growing evening, holding onto each other by the arm and laughing slightly like two people who had narrowly escaped the gauntlet. The night air felt crisp and fresh as it filled my lungs, a rare feeling in New York City.

"You owe me five bucks," Joann said between nervous giggles, and went on before I could reply. "Did you see the look on that one girl's face when the guy said you got the part? I thought she was gonna throw up right there."

I gave her a light shove. "What about you? You got Gwendolen without having to even read more than ten lines! I had to do mine twice."

"Only because we got paired together for that second round," she replied. "Now about that five bucks…"

"I'll buy you a cheeseburger," I said quickly.

The cheerful grin that I would see practically every day for weeks to come spread across her ruby lips. "At the risk of sounding cliché," she said in all seriousness, "this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

The small café was filled with noise and a light air of cigarette smoke. I led the way to a corner booth but Joann seized my hand and pulled me toward two empty stools by the bar, where a group of large, burly men were crowded around a small television, watching what appeared to be the news. From where we sat we couldn't see much.

"Hey!" Joann shouted over their heads. A few of them turned and studied us with interest. "Turn it up, will ya?" One of the men snorted a short laugh and turned the sound on the television up a few notches, and seemed almost flushed as Joann winked at him appreciatively. I took the time to order the cheeseburger I had promised her and an order of fries for myself, all the while wondering if she lived to attract attention to herself.

As we waited for the food to arrive, a news bulletin appeared on TV that seemed to be drawing the attention of most diners. I had to squint to make out the young man on the screen. He had tan skin, bright eyes, and definitely handsome features. A woman with large hair and too much makeup was holding a microphone up to him, hanging on to every word he said. Behind him was another man, perhaps the young man's father or manager, chewing on a large cigar impatiently and waiting for his turn on screen.

"Not again," Joann groaned and rolled her eyes.

"Not what again?"

"That guy," she jerked a thumb at the young man, who was in the process of stepping aside to let the older man speak. "They make him out to be some sort of hero. Just 'cause he walk on Mars or something. Big deal."

I shrugged. "Some might say it's a major achievement."

"Don't get me wrong, I got nothing against him. I just think the country's money could be better spent than sending ANOTHER monkey into space."

I chuckled. "Monkey?"

"Men are monkeys, or about as smart anyway."

The older man was onscreen now, still chewing on his cigar. I watched him take it out long enough to say loudly in a short, choppy tone, "I'm real proud of my boy. Gets it from me you know." He suddenly stopped and waved to someone off screen. "Hey you! Come here, get some pictures of me and my boy. What's the matter with you? Shy? Get on it!" Various flashes went off from all angles as the young man gave a tired smile. He wasn't enjoying it as much as his old man, but was obviously somewhat pleased to have the attention.

"Kinda cute, though," Joann said, grabbing her cheeseburger and biting into it before the waiter even set the plates down. "Wouldn't mind a piece of that."

"Joann!"

"What? He's cute. Don't tell me you got no hormones."

"Well, I…"

"I think she can judge men for herself."

Joann opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again, realizing I was not the one who spoke. I turned around on my stool and found myself facing a man in a threadbare gray T-shirt and torn jeans, clothes that blended easily into the background. All I could make out was his profile in the dim lighting since he didn't turn to face us. None of the other men, absorbed in the news story, had heard him speak. Noticing that he had gotten our attention, he took a swig from the bottle in his hand, turned to us slightly and smiled.

"No way," Joann said, sounding a little breathless.

I looked at him, then at her. "What?"

She didn't look at me. "You're that astronaut," she said a little too quickly.

"Nah, I'm just another monkey," he said with good humor and extended a hand to me. "John Jameson."

A little stunned, I shook it. "M-Mary Jane," I stumbled.

"Just Mary Jane?"

I gathered myself a bit. "Mary Jane Watson. And this is Joann."

He smiled at her. "Charmed."

Joann had already regained her composure, the playful smirk back on her face. "So what are you doing here? You like watching people worship you?"

John shrugged. "Nope, I just like the beer nuts," he said, swirling his beer in the bottle, "and I didn't ask anyone to worship me. I just kind of assumed I can be proud of what I did."

I had a feeling Joann had some sarcastic remark prepared for just that moment, but someone's tap on her shoulder made her turn. It was the man who had turned the sound up on the television. He was medium-height, with more than just one spare tire around his waist, balding head hidden under a sweaty baseball cap. He grinned at her, looking a little embarrassed, showing a mouthful of teeth darkened from years of tobacco-chewing.

"Can I buy you a drink, miss?" he said with surprising politeness.

Joann studied him up and down, then turned to me and asked, "how much more money you got on you, Mary Jane?"

"Just bus fare home."

"Crud, same here." She turned back to the man. "Make it two," she told him.

"Um, I don't want any," I said quickly.

She winked. "Who said it's for you?" Waving to me with one hand and grabbing her purse with the other, she tossed me a quick, "see you at the rehearsal," and left with the man. I watched her leave and couldn't help smiling, envying her spirit and a bit disgusted at the same time.

"Interesting friend you got." I turned back to John. He was still smiling. "What are you rehearsing for? Are you a dancer?"

His voice was friendly and gentle. "I'm an actress," I replied, suddenly realizing the reality of it—I really was an actress now. Some small part of me swelled with pride.

"Really?"

"Yes I just got a part in The Importance of Been Ernest."

"I read it in college. Great play. Lemme guess, Cecily right?"

I sighed. "Why does everyone say that?"

"Am I wrong?"

"No. I just don't understand why I'm such a typecast."

"You have an innocent look," he said, scooting his stool a little closer, but still keeping a comfortable distance. "And you're very pretty, if you don't mind me saying so. It's almost a classical look, like any European lady you see in an opera."

I felt the temperature in my cheeks rise. "Thanks." There was a pause. "So why aren't you somewhere else?"

He gasped with mock anger. "Do you not want me here?"

"No, it's just that you seem like you should be out there, doing something glamorous."

Shaking his head, he downed the rest of his beer. "There are nice things about a glamorous life, but there's only so much fame you can take."

"Really?"

"Really. My dad enjoys it more than I do."

"Nothing wrong with a father wanting to be proud of his son."

"No I guess not. He just loves publishing stories about me in his paper and mention nonstop that I'm his son."

"Paper?"

"Yea, my dad runs The Bugle. James Jameson, you may have heard of him."

I rolled the name over in my mind. Yes, I have heard it. Mr. Jameson was Peter's boss, a stingy man with a temper to be reckoned with if I remembered correctly. The image I formed in my mind seemed so different from the young man chatting with me at the moment.

Peter… I had not thought about him in a few hours. That was rare. And now the thought of him brought an uncomfortable twinge to my heart. It must have showed.

"Are you alright?"

I forced a smile. "Yes I'm fine." I breathed out and looked around. Joann seemed to have left the fat man, who was now sitting alone in a booth, less the contents of his wallet from the looks of it. Guess Joann preferred to take a taxi home instead. "What now? Should I ask for your autograph?"

John chuckled. "I hate it when people do that," he said. "So I don't give autographs. Would you settle for my phone number?"

I started. "Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry, that was rude," he said quickly, withdrawing.

"No it's ok, I'm just," I searched for the right words. "I'm not looking for anyone right now." Somehow it felt like a lie.

"So you're taken then?"

Nothing could explain why I hesitated at the question. All that came out was, "I don't know."

"Pardon me for asking, but shouldn't you know something like that?"

"Sometimes long stories are best left untold."

"I understand. Have a good evening," he said, standing up to leave, and paused. "No, I don't want to pass it up like this." He pulled a pen out of his pants pocket and jotted a number onto a napkin. "I'll just leave it up to you," he said without looking at me, as if afraid of how I might react, "you don't even have to take it if you don't want to."

I sat there long after he was out of sight, staring at the squiggled numbers on the napkin. The men watching television slowly drifted apart, gone to sleep the night away in their respective homes. The bartender stepped in front of me and asked gently, "can I clear that up for you, miss?"

I nodded and watched him take away the plates with Joann's half-eaten cheeseburger and the order of fries that had gone cold and stale, never even touched. As he reached to take the napkin, I beat him to it and stuff it into my pocket. He didn't think much of it and went about his business.

As I walked down the chilly streets, the wad of paper in my pocket felt as if it weighed ten pounds, nearly pulling me to one side, causing keeping balance to be a challenge. I remembered those honest brown eyes looking at me, so kindly it was strange because it has been so long since someone gave me that kind of attention. It has been quite some time since snobby, popular Flash Thompson tried to buy me off with a class ring, since rich, handsome Harry Osbourn vied for the fleeting fancies of my heart, and since Peter Parker, the man who showed me the true pain of unrequited love.

Few stars were visible in the dark skies of New York--the city lights have blocked them out. The moon was the only thing that could be seen with fair clarity, and it was on that I focused, trying to clear my mind of those kind brown eyes.

__

What am I doing?

I spent many hours that night staring at the poorly-painted ceiling of my small studio apartment, connecting the dots made by the bumps of paint. Having found this place a few month ago, I moved away from home, somewhat to mom's dismay and much to my stepfather George's pleasure. He even helped me pack and slipped me a fifty when mom wasn't looking, more out of hopes that I wouldn't come back than any sort of kindness. I haven't been back home since except two short visits under mom's insistence. It was a cheap place, but that was one of its best qualities. Though far from quaint, as the name may suggest, it was easily affordable on the salary I received from my job as a waitress. The low price was due to the noise--the only window overlooked a busy street that filled with honking cars every morning by six a.m.

As I laid there, the sounds of the never-ending traffic against drifted through the thin walls. Many tenants complained regularly, but the noise hardly ever bothered me. I slept through it every night and sometimes used it to block out unpleasant thoughts, which I had more often than I'd like to admit. Thinking too much is quite a pain.

When the paint chips lost their appeal, I let my eyes wonder about the room, across the small stove and kitchen counter, the sink and toilet covered by a curtain in the corner. The apartment was fairly sparse of furniture. I had added little since it came with a bed, table, one chair, and the nightstand by my bed, where the wrinkled napkin sat, the phone number still scrawled on it.

Outside, there was a wave of angry honks. A driver was pissed off and cursing. A dog was barking. Such was the music of New York City.

Turmoil was the closest description I could come up with for my state of mind. No part of me had even considered having another relationship, or even dating someone, for all the trouble it had brought me in the past. I had life now. I was an actress and there was nothing else I needed.

Except that was a lie and I knew it.

I thought about him again, the way I always do. I always see those blue eyes whenever I think about Peter Parker. I have not laid eyes on him for some time now. He was always busy, running around trying catch up, though despite that he was always behind in everything. A weight settled in my chest every time his face appeared in my mind and it always took much effort to be lifted. I often felt that I needed him, no matter what he said to me I needed him.

I glanced around the room again, moving only my neck slightly and letting the rest of my body relax as they will. The digital alarm clock sitting next to the scrap of napkin on my nightstand read 10:30 p.m.

A sudden sense of urgency prompted me to sit up abruptly. Before I was fully aware of what I was doing, my left hand was holding the receiver of the old telephone I had purchased at a second-hand store and my right was dialing the number for Peter's old house. It rung four times before a slow, kind voice answered.

"Hello?" it said with a hint of sleep.

"Aunt May? It's Mary Jane. Did I wake you up?"

"Oh, Mary Jane!" the voice exclaimed cheerily. "Not at all, dear. How are you?"

I couldn't stifle the giggle that escaped me. Aunt May's voice never failed to cheer me up. "I'm fine, Aunt May. I got a part in a play today."

"Really? Well, good for you!" Sincerely happiness filled my heart. "Which play is it?"

"The Importance of Been Ernest. I'm playing Cecily."

"That's wonderful, dear. You must let Peter know."

I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat at the mentioning of his name. "I don't know his apartment's number."

There was a pause. "Oh, that's right," she said thoughtfully. "He doesn't have a phone in there. No matter. I'll be sure to tell him. Don't you worry."

"I won't."

"You should celebrate. You and Peter should go out and celebrate," Aunt May prattled on. "Oh, he'll be so happy for you!"

I just smiled and nodded. Then, realizing that she couldn't see it, I added, "Yes I'm sure we'll get a chance to."

"I know," she said suddenly, "I'll tell him to meet you at your first rehearsal. He'll be thrilled. Where will the show be, dear?"

"The Epic Theater. The first rehearsal will be on Tuesday."

I heard her scramble for paper to scribble down the information. "Yes, yes. He will be there. I will make sure of it."

"Thank you, Aunt May."

"Not at all. I better let you go. These old bones need their sleep."

"All right. Good night, Aunt May."

"You sleep good yourself, Mary Jane. Good night."

I laid back down on the bed, set the alarm for my early shift at the diner, and drifted off to sleep without bothering to change cloth. As usual, the noise from the bustling city night didn't bother me a bit.

I had other things on my mind.

Two days later it finally occurred to me to call my mother and tell her about the play. She was thrilled, kept babbling about how her little girl is going to be a star. George didn't comment on the phone but mom kept saying how my "father" was also proud of me. I cringed at the thought of been related to George but wisely kept my mouth shut.

The first rehearsal came and went. The majority of it consisted of basic instructions on the structure of the play and a few practice lines. Joann spent most of it whispering snide comments about the director to me and when that became boring, she filled me in on how she charmed the fat man at the bar to buy her beers and give her cab fair home without even getting a kiss out of it.

Most of the cast was quite bored as we waited to be measured for costumes one by one. Joann occupied herself by striking up a heated argument about politics with the man who played John Worthing. Instead of mingling with the crew, I sat downstage alone, checking my watch every few minutes, feeling more excited than I probably was about the play. An impatient itch crept about my chest. It was probably why I didn't notice the stagehand approaching me.

"You're Miss Watson, right?" he said around a mouthful of gum.

I looked at him in surprise. "Yea, that's me."

"I had a call for you. Guy was in a hurry. He said to give you a message."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Yea, some guy named Peter. He said sorry he can't make it. There was a… what was the word he used? Oh yea, disturbance. Said he'll make it up to you."

I sat there for a long moment after he left, unable to comprehend the words he spoke. A hand laid on my shoulder and shook slightly. Looking up, I saw Joann leaning over me.

"People are leaving," she said. "What's eating you?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. "It's nothing," I finally said.

She was not convinced but didn't push it. "You shouldn't keep stuff bottled up. It's bad for your health."

"Really."

"Yea, lookit Robby," she said, pointing over her shoulder, where Robby was talking to a seamstress loudly and in exasperation. "He lets stuff out all over the place. He's gonna live to be at least a hundred, unfortunately for the rest of us."

I chuckled. "Let's go," I said briefly. "Nothing to wait for around here."

The two of us were halfway to the front door when the stagehand appeared again. "Miss Watson!" he called across the room.

I stopped and gave Joann and impatient look, which she returned. "Yea?" I yelled back.

"There's some guy here to see you, he's by the backdoor."

Peter. My heart gave a leap.

"Must be a fan. He's got flowers."

Joann leered. "Well, well, don't we work fast," she said.

"It's just my friend," I said quickly, my eyes centered on the back door. "I'll catch up with you later, ok?"

"I want details."

"He's just a friend!"

"You never had friends who, you know?"

"Joann!"

"Whatever," she rolled her eyes, "go see your friend. I'll see you at the rehearsal tomorrow."

I left her and rushed to the backdoor quickly. Surely enough, a young man stood there, wearing a handsome sports jacket and black slacks. He smiled. Brown eyes peeked at me shyly over a large bouquet of roses and baby's breath.

"John…"


	2. Chapter 2

This is chapter two. It took so much courage to get it up 'cause I was so paranoid that it sucks. I feel guilty leaving people hanging. Stupid FFN formatting is forcing me to type "break" where I used to put my cute little break symbols. Sigh... Enjoy, R&R please.

CH 2

I smiled slightly at the waiter who brought me my iced tea. The restaurant John had picked out was slightly fancier than what I was used to, though not as trendy as some of the places Harry used to take me. The evening was still young. Many of the tables were filled but the small dance floor in the middle of the room was still empty. Feeling slightly self-conscious since I really wasn't dressed for any occasion, I kept my eyes downcast and sipped my drink. John sat across from me, the bouquet of flowers laid quietly between us on the table.

"You're not saying much," he said quietly, leaning forward in his chair.

"I'm just a little…" I couldn't find a way to finish that sentence.

"Surprised?"

"Something like that."

"I'm sorry if I came on too strong," he said apologetically.

I shook my head quickly. "No, it's not that. I'm flattered, really. I'm just not looking for anyone right now."

"You said that before." I nodded, stirring my drink with a straw absently. "I didn't mean to change your mind or anything. I just wanted to get to know you. We can have some fun, can't we?"

"I don't know…"

"Is there someone else?"

I started. "No, not at all."

"Well, I think you're intriguing. What do you think about me?"

I rolled the question around in my mind and rested my head on one hand. "I don't think I know you well enough yet to answer that." His smiled widened, giving me a warm feeling from head to toe. "So how did you find me, John?"

"I asked around. It's not hard to find out about anything in this town. Plus people like this play."

"Does that mean you'll come to see it?"

"Of course. I've heard good things about the director, and I must say I'm already impressed with his choice of cast."

Feeling the heat rise in my face, I quickly scanned the room for anything that would change the subject. That was when the music caught my ear.

"Sex and Candy."

He raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"That song. It's Sex and Candy. I haven't heard it in a long time."

He stood up from his chair and extended one hand. "Would you like to dance?"

"I smell sex an candy here…"

I looked up and something inside me made me take his hand be led to the dance floor.

"Who's that lounging in my chair…"

He placed one hand on the small of my back gently and guided me across the dance floor slowly, his steps smooth and careful. I simply followed and didn't resist. It felt good to be dancing. I had lost track of how long I had danced last. The room seemed to grow darker as the music grew louder.

"Who's that casting devious stares in my direction…"

Perhaps it was the song, or the weaving motion, but I felt lost, as if the ocean was beneath me and it was hard to keep my balance. My mind also clouded over, making every memory hazy.

Including Peter Parker's face.

"Mama this surely is a dream…"

His face was inches from me, brown eyes gazing into mine. I didn't kiss him, but nor could I look away.

break--

The play opened about twelve weeks after that very night. To those of us behind the scenes, it ran just short of a disaster. The hem of my skirt tore six inches ten minutes before I was to be on stage and had to be fixed quickly by a barrage of staples and safety pins; Joann had a run-in with a pile of props and sprained her ankle; some of the set had not had its last layer of paint; and the man who was to play Algernon lost his hat.

Fortunately for us, none of this was seen by the captive audience that filled the theater on opening night. John had a seat in center of the third row. His presence helped ease some of the first-night jitters.

But as I peeked out the curtains before going on stage, I could not find many more friendly faces. My mother had come down with pneumonia a week before and, while no where near life-threatening, was prescribed strict bed rest. George was not going to spend money to come alone, not that I regretted that any. Aunt May had promised to be here for the next showing with Peter on her arm.

There was a twinge in my heart as it automatically associated Peter with broken promises.

Two rows behind John, however, sat a curly-haired young man in a black suit. There was a hint of impatience in his eyes as he checked his watch, looking like someone who had places to be and people to see. I wouldn't be surprised if he did. Harry Osbourn had become more and more like his father in the past year, a fact that I could not overlook even if I tried. He had grown a little taller, and slightly thinner, or maybe that was just the illusion created by the suit. He was an important man now, no longer the boy who tried to woo me with pretty toys and jewelry.

The show went on with false ease since no one could guess the crisis behind the stage. I was quite surprised to find myself falling into character happily, letting the stage and lights take over and make me someone else. When it was time for curtain-call, I was almost disappointed.

The cast party was lively as everyone waited anxiously for the first review of the morning. John came backstage to congratulate me and Joann, who gave him the usual attitude.

"So," she said sharply, "what are your intentions toward Mary Jane?"

I gaped at her, but he merely smiled. "The best, I assure you."

"What do you have to assure me?"

This dance had been done before. John reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. Joann took it and tucked it into the front of her shirt. "Alright, take care of her," she said. I chuckled as she walked away, knowing that the money will find its way back into John's pocket before the night was over.

"You must have a lot of fun with her."

I nodded, still grinning. "I do. She keeps things interesting."

John wrapped his hand around mine. I felt my heart skip. "You looked wonderful on stage."

I stammered awkwardly. "Thank you."

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. We turned around to find the stagehand who always had gum in his mouth. Somehow he had become the messenger among the crew. "Somebody's looking for you," he said, jerking a thumb behind him, where a middle-aged man with thin-rimmed glasses stood. He looked at me and waved politely.

Bewildered, I waved back. "Um, ok," I told the stagehand, "thanks."

"Not a prob."

The man with rimmed glasses approached us. He was about fifty, with a short beard and hazy eyes. "Pleased to meet you, miss," he said in a quite business-like manner and extended one hand. I shook it, slightly confused. "It was a great performance."

"Thank you, sir."

"My name is Boris Dumas," he continued. "I'm from Emma Rose perfume." At that, he let go of my hand and began to fumble around in the many pockets of his coat. Finally, he pulled out a business card and handed it to me. "We're looking for some new faces to start off our next ad campaign. I thought you may be interested."

I took the card and studied it. "Ad campaign?"

"Yes ma'am. Mostly magazine ads and billboards" He pushed his glasses upward with one finger. "If you're interested, give my office a call any day this week during business hours and ask for Boris. We can set up a photo shoot any time."

Not believing my ears, I simply stood there, stunned. John, seeing my surprise, smiled at the man and said, "I'm sure she'll let you know."

Boris Dumas nodded, seeming satisfied with that, and walked away. I turned the business card over in my hand, trying to make sense of it all.

"Mary Jane?"

"I just…" I tried hard to find the words. "I can't believe it." A squeal escaped me. "This is unbelievable! I can't believe this is happening!"

John wrapped me in a tight hug and I held him back. "You deserve it," he said, voice muffled in my shirt. "I know you do."

In the heat of the moment, he planted a small kiss on the corner of my mouth. I froze and looked up at him, surprised. When he kissed me again, I didn't pull back.

break--

"Mary Jane?" I snapped out of my trance and saw Joann waving a hand in front of me. "Are you awake? Or just thinking about your lover?"

"I'm awake. What is it?"

"Time to go. If we're late they'll lock and changing room with our cloth in there." She looked down at herself. "Not that I've never rode the bus in a corset before, but this is not the time nor the occasion."

"Alright, let's go." I quickly gathered up the side of my skirt and followed her, deciding not to ask her to elaborate on the "time" and the "occasion".

The messenger stagehand stopped me once again and handed me a bouquet of roses without a word. He was getting used to delivering the never-ending shower of flowers John sent me. I thanked him quickly.

"That boy spoils you rotten," Joann said. "Some girls get all the luck."

"Luck? I thought you don't like him."

"He makes you happy, doesn't he? I guess the space monkey's good for something… hey wait a minute." She reached into the bouquet and pulled out a folded card. "This is a first."

I snatched it from her. "Well would you kindly let me read it?" I said with pretend anger.

"Too late," she said deviously. "Who's H. Osbourn?"

"My friend Harry."

Her eyes widened. "You friend Harry is Harry Osbourn? THE Harry Osbourn?"

"Yes. What?"

She slapped me on the arm. "You do get around, girl, don't you?"

"We're just friends."

"In that case, introduce him to me."

"Isn't he a little young for you? Don't tell me you're the type to go for money."

"Who cares about money? He's yummy."

I exaggerated a shudder. "You're disturbing."

"Why thank you. Now hurry up and change. Robby's gonna yell if they can't lock up on time."

"Ok, ok. You go ahead." I set down the bouquet and opened the card. There was a short message inside.

_Dear M.J._

_I enjoyed the play even better the second time. You were brilliant as usual. Peter's birthday is coming up, which seems to me like a perfect excuse to get together. Give me a call whenever._

_Love,_

_H. Osbourn_

I folded up the card and laid it beside the flowers. Yes, Peter's birthday WAS coming up. Does he even realize that himself? I never knew anymore. He was a hard one to read. All the "disturbances" in his life is consuming all of his time. He's like a shadow on the ground--one side facing the sun, the other side no one can see. A sigh escaped me at the thought.

Usually John met me after a show, or if he couldn't, I went out to a late dinner with Joann. But this time I told Joann there were errands to run and headed back to the apartment early, the card in my hand, leaving the roses on my makeup bureau.

As I walked under the billboard on Bleaker Street, I looked up to see my own eyes gazing down, next to the words "Parfumerie Emma Rose". In the city lights they seemed almost ghostly, like those of a fortune teller who looked into your soul and smirked because she wasn't about to tell you what she saw.

break--

The first photo shoot had been nerve-wrecking. I found myself in a room filled with tall, blond, gorgeous women who kept assuming I was the cleaning girl and a photographer with a thick Italian accent who fit every stereotype imaginable. Wearing black pants at least two sizes too tight, he enjoyed making suggestive gestures at each girl and telling them to "make love to the camera".

After two hours of watching the other girls turn their perfect bodies and toss their hair, it was my turn at last. The photographer was immediately displeased with me, and continuously made that clear as the other girls smirked.

"Come ON, gal," he said with exasperation. "Show me something, huh? No, no, don't you know how to smile? Work it, come on, make love to the camera!"

Every fiber of my being stiffened as he told me to show a little skin, do a little dance, etc, etc. I simply stood there, forcing a smile to stay on my face as the rest of the room whispered in distain. When it was over, I breathed a sigh of relief, grabbed my purse and jacket, and made a beeline for the exit.

And ran head-on into someone.

"Whoa, what's your hurry?" the other said. I looked up to see the rimmed-glasses of Mr. Dumas.

"I'm sorry, sir," I said quietly. "I'm just on my way out."

He tilted his head. "Already?"

I nodded, avoiding his eyes. "Thank you for the opportunity, but this really isn't for me."

He didn't let up. "What makes you say that?"

Casting a look back, I saw the next girl in line posing with all naturalness for the camera. "There are more suitable people here."

"Did Elliot tell you that?"

I shrugged. "Something like that."

A deep, sincere laugh run out of him. "He's lying, you know," he said. "Elliot only picks on people he likes. He likes to do that, making people guess. He's not even Italian. It's all fake. Come around to the break room and you can hear him talk like a trucker."

I couldn't help but smile at that as he went on. "You think people like those types?" he asked, gesturing at the roomful of Barbie dolls. "Let me tell you something, Miss Watson, people are tired. They're tired of the size two bodies with brains to match. They want something real, something more natural, something that plastic and silicon can't deliver. I'm sure you're smart enough to see that."

I gazed at him hopefully. "Do you mean I have a chance?"

He adjusted his glasses in mock snobbery. "Well," he said, "we'll just have to look at how the pictures turn out, don't we?"

Two weeks later, my face appeared over Bleaker Street and I turned in my apron at the Moon Dance cafe.

break--

"Peter Parker?"

I took the latte John handed me and sipped it, letting the warmth flow through my veins. "Thank you. Yes, Peter's a very good friend of mine growing up. For while in high school we ran with different cliques, but he was always there for me."

John took a seat next to me and blew on his own drink. "Sounds like a great guy."

"He is." I gave him a teasing smile. "But he's not the only one."

He smiled back before taking my hand and placing a light kiss on the tip of my fingers. "So it's going to be a surprise party?"

"Just a small one. Only going to be three people, in fact. Me, Harry, and his Aunt May."

"Peter Parker," John repeated. "I feel like I've heard the name before but can't put a face to it."

"Maybe I've mentioned him before?"

"No, that's not it." He pursed his lips in thought.

I shrugged and sipped from my cup again. "Maybe you've heard of him. He takes pictures for the Bugle sometimes."

John slapped one hand on the table. "That's it," he exclaimed. "Is he the one who takes pictures of Spiderman?"

"That's him."

"Risky job. Dad complains about him sometimes, says he's slow with the pictures and never wants to cough up the pictures if it's not used as he liked it."

I paused. "So what do you think of him?"

"Peter? I haven't met him, but if you say he's a good guy then he must be."

"Not him," I said, lowering my voice a little. "Spiderman."

A flicker of surprise in his eyes indicated he didn't expect the question. "I don't think either way of him," he replied after a moment. "I think my dad makes him out to be too much of a menace, but he can't be as great as some people claim him to be either. No one's that much of a hero. I think he's just another weirdo trying to do what he thinks is the right thing." He looked at me. "Why?"

"No reason." I let him hold my hand and listened to him talk about space and people and the news, not really paying attention to any of it. Somehow what he said about Spiderman that day lingered on my mind for a long time. It was a very accurate, unbiased description, and unknown to him, fitted more persons than one.

Just another weirdo trying to do what he thinks is the right thing…

What's the right thing to you, Peter?

break--

I picked out a violet sweater to wear to Peter's party. It was soft, comfortable, and what some people could call "curve-hugging". Underneath it I put on a calf-length, old-fashioned skirt and studied the whole thing in the mirror. The whole outfit looked very much like a costume to me, a casual, carefree image that says "beauty without effort" despite the fact that it took me an hour to assemble.

I also crimped my hair slightly and put on a little makeup, something I'd only done for auditions in the past year. No part of me knew why I was trying at all, but my limbs went about the task of primping systematically.

My heart pounded a bit as I made my way down the all-too-familiar street. It was getting late and the lights were on in most houses. An old yellow car sat quietly in the driveway of one of the houses, looking worn and tired like an old resident. I made my way past it and rung the doorbell.

Aunt May greeted me with a warm kiss on the cheek when I walked into the old house. It still looked every way like I remembered. The small living room was filled with the smell of home cooked food, something I have not had in a long time unless microwave-heated take-out counted. I wrapped her in a tight hug and took everything in with my eyes. It was all so familiar. I almost expected to see Uncle Ben come out the back room toting his toolbox and complaining with a cheery grin that something else needed to be fixed and his old back wasn't up for it.

One look into Aunt May's eyes told me that she had not forgotten the second anniversary of Uncle Ben's death. I broke my glance and followed her inside before the tears started to take on a mind of its own.

"Harry's already here," she informed me, "he brought the cake. Now I told him not to bring too much food but you know him--did it anyway. I don't know where I'm going to put it all."

Still talking but walking out of earshot, she busied herself in the kitchen. I took off my coat and was looking for a place to hang it when a hand reached out and pulled it out of my hand gently.

"May I?"

I turned and found myself face-to-face with Harry Osbourn. He gave me a smile that made me think he was hiding something deep inside every time I saw it. Sleek, curly black hair covered his head, set just right for the look of a man on his way up. He was even thinner than I remembered, chiseled features glowing with sharp intelligence. As he hung up my coat I noticed how dark his presence was, from his entirely black attire to the bleak smile to eyes that seemed swimming with emotion even when the rest of his face didn't show it.

"Thanks, Harry," I said with a smile. "How have you been?"

Tucking his hands in his pocket, he approached me with a stride that reminded me all too much of his father. "It's all the same," he said, the emotionless smile not leaving his face, "you can only go to so many board meetings and press conferences before they all start running together."

I nodded sympathetically. "It must have been so hard."

"No, it's not so bad," he said, shaking his head. "You look good tonight."

I blushed slightly. "Thank you."

"Looking good for Peter?"

"I…" I stopped myself. "No, not particularly. I just wanted to look nice for his birthday."

He looked me up and down. "I haven't seen you in a dress in a long time," he said softly, "not since we were together."

I avoided his gaze, and prayed that he would stop smiling. "No, I guess not."

For a moment I was afraid he would do something stupid, but he stepped past me, took a seat at the living room table, and began to remove the plastic covering on a large birthday cake. "Peter's late."

"Well he's been very busy these days," Aunt May cut in as she emerged from the kitchen. "School, one job after another, so many projects. I don't know how that boy can do it."

Harry made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a scoff. "Yep, our Pete's a busy man," he said as Aunt May disappeared out of sight again. "Spiderman's a hard one to keep up with."

The subtle bitterness in his comment made me change the subject. I took a seat next to him and helped him pick out the candles. "So how are things at Oscorp, Harry?"

The smile warmed up a bit. "Gonna be great, M.J.," he said. "I got this new guy, called Octavius. He's got a new experiment that's going to take Oscorp to a whole new level."

"Really?"

"I don't exactly know what he's got planned yet, but I got high hopes for him." He held up a red candle in front of his face and turned it, as if mesmerized. "Something about the power of the sun. Never ending energy. It all sounds crazy until he explains it."

"He must really be something."

The candle fell to the table with a light "thump". "If it all goes well, M.J.," Harry said dreamily, "he might be everything."

Aunt May came out of the kitchen and set several glasses along with some party favors down on the table. "Would you pour some punch, M.J.?" she asked. "Everything's pretty much ready. And… Oh!" she rushed to the window and peeked out. "There he is!"

My heart suddenly began to pound again as I tried hard not to spill the punch in the ladle in the my hand. Harry picked up a paper noise maker and twirled it between two fingers. "Party time," he said.

A moment later the door opened and a young man wearing an old gray vest, backpack, and a red bike helmet walked in. He didn't look up at any of us for a few seconds as he took off his helmet, set it aside, and began to struggle with his vest.

At the sight of him, I couldn't help but smile. "Surprise!" I cried, and heard Harry and Aunt May do the same. Harry blew on the noise maker, which gave a cheerful toot.

He looked up at us, mouth slightly open. Aunt May stepped in front of him, and I could see her smile even though her back was facing me. "Well, say something!" she said.

Peter blinked and laid his vest aside. "Uh, what's the occasion?" he asked.

Aunt May approached him and laid kind hands on his face. "Really, Peter," she said, the same time Harry mumbled with amused sarcasm, "what's the occasion…"

"It's your birthday! Whether you want to remember it"--she kissed his cheek-- "or not." A kiss on his other cheek. The stunned look on his face was enough.

"He lives in another reality," I teased. He turned to me and I stupidly thought, his eyes were still blue. "How are you, Pete?" I asked as he walked into the living room slowly, half-smiling and half still recovering from shock.

"Hi, M.J.," he said, sounding a bit breathless, but something told me he was glad to see me.

"Hi," I said softly as he greeted Harry with a "hey buddy", who returned it along with a friendly handshake. "Long time no see."

Time seemed to slow down just a little as those blue eyes bore into me. "So, uh, how's the play?" he asked with all sincerity, "I read a great review."

I could only reply simply. "It's going fine," I told him. "It's going good."

"She's brilliant," Harry cut in.

I chuckled, feeling a little embarrassed. "Harry sent me roses."

"So where've you been, pal?" Harry continued. "You never return my calls."

For a second I thought I sensed defensiveness in Peter's voice as he said, "I've been busy", but quickly dismissed the thought.

Harry's smile was frozen on his face again. "Taking pictures of Spiderman?" he asked, as if making conversation. "How's the bug these days?"

"The less of that man you see the better," Aunt May cut in firmly, to my relief. Call it paranoia if you will, but I was certain of the tension in the room at the mere mention of Spiderman. "Now let's all go into the other room and have something to eat, hm?" she continued as she placed a glass of punch in Peter's hand.

"I'll get the hor'derves," I offered quickly and headed to the kitchen. As I busied myself looking for a knife to slice up the cheese with, I kept an ear on the living room. Harry was talking about Oscorp again. The name Otto Octavius was mentioned as I stepped out again. Something warned me against joining the conversation.

"Octavius is gonna put Oscorp on the map the way my father never even dreamed of," Harry said, that dreamy quality returning to his voice.

A long second passed as I stood there staring at his backside. How he looked like his father in every way! I could almost hear the man's voice coming from Harry's throat. They were big dreamers, the Osbourns, matched with big ambitions.

Aunt May's call awakened me. Taking the opportunity, I tore myself away from the two boys and followed her back into the kitchen. She was smiling so broadly, so obviously happy to have her little boy home. As I spent the next half hour racing back and forth between the sink, the counter, and various small tasks, I still had time to see how much joy she took in taking care of Peter. He was like a son to her, perhaps even more than that.

When we emerged with large trays of food, Harry and Peter hurried to help, but somehow I noticed they approached from opposite sides of the room. Harry only smiled slightly and avoided my questioning gaze, and Peter said nothing out of the usual as he took a seat next to me at the table. Aunt May was ecstatic, a sight which made the rest of us smile. This was as much her party as Peter's.

Among the midst of celebration, I strapped a paper party hat to Peter's head and flicked it jokingly. "It suits you," I told him with a playful grin.

He smiled back and shrugged. "I'll have to trust you on that." A pause, then, "I'm sorry I keep missing you play."

I shook my head. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm sorry I keep standing you up."

I put a finger up to his lips and shushed him. "Stop apologizing, Peter," I told him, "it's your birthday".


	3. Chapter 3

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, that took a long time, I know. I have been very busy. But the good news is, I have a few weeks of free time and I'm making very good progress. There will be quite a few updates in the next few weeks and hopefully the whole thing will be done by the end of the summer. Thanks for all the support.

CH 3

Harry offered me a ride back to the apartment, but I declined, pretending not to notice the disappointment written all over his face. I stood in the driveway of my old house, watching his car disappear into the night. Stars dotted the sky, which was a rare thing in the city. The night was surprisingly bright. I turned and gazed up at the window of the house I once lived in. Neither mom nor George knew I was here and I preferred to keep it that--I had very little to say to them.

Nevertheless, I circled around to the backyard and took a seat on the steps in front of the backdoor, wrapping my coat tightly against the chilly air. Being outside felt good. I had forgotten how little of the city's noise and smog reached this neighborhood. Even though winter was coming, I thought I heard crickets in the bushes, singing their last song.

The light in Peter's house was still on, and through the open curtains I could see Peter and Aunt May moving around, talking. There was a time when I could sit up in my old room and look right into Peter's bedroom. I never did find out if he knew about that or not, or maybe he knew and preferred to watch me with the same fascination when I wasn't looking.

I sat and watched them for a long time, an invisible member of the family. Somehow Peter and Aunt May felt more like family than anyone else, including the people in the house directly behind me. I wondered if that would ever change.

Just as I tested the idea of leaving, the screen door opened. Carrying a large plastic garbage bag, Peter walked out into the yard. Watching him brought back memories. How many times have we stood here talking, with only the fence between us?

I waited for him to finish his errand before calling.

"Hey."

He faced me in surprised. "Hey," he said, approaching the fence. "You're still here." I stood, brushed myself off, and did the same. "I saw your billboard on Bleaker."

It was not the topic I had hoped for. I hoped my frown wasn't as great as the one inside. "Isn't it funny?" I said, half sighing, "I'm really kind of embarrassed."

"Don't be," Peter said quickly. "It's nice. I get to see you everyday now."

For a moment we stood there, just looking at each other. The dreamy quality in his voice was like Harry's from not long ago, but also completely different somehow. I felt as if fountains of words were boiling in my throat.

"I liked seeing tonight, Peter."

I knew, somehow I knew, that he had just as much to say, but all he managed was, "Oh boy, yeah."

" 'Oh boy, yeah', what?" I asked softly, moving a little closer to the fence.

At that moment I hated him. I felt as if I hated him because he was keeping all of those words inside as he replied, "nothing." But they were still pouring out, pouring out if his eyes and all over his face.

"Do you want to say something?" I couldn't allow him to look away.

"I…" he began, and I suddenly felt like I had to wait an eternity for him to finish. "…was wondering if you're still in the Village."

I smiled. I forced a thin smile onto my face. "You're such a mystery," I said to him, holding back the rest. Truthfully, "mystery" was an understatement. I wanted to know. There was so much I wanted to say, to ask. Without fully realizing what I was doing, I had reached up and touched his face with one hand. It felt warm and familiar. I cupped his cheek in my hand and knew, at least, that he was real.

He was here right now.

"Peter…"

He was breathless. I didn't know what that could mean, nor did I care to wound myself by guessing. "What?"

I shook my head slightly and let my hand fall. All I could say was, "happy birthday." As he searched for a response, I turned and walked away. But something stopped me and I turned back to him. "I'm seeing somebody now."

He frowned slightly. I wasn't certain if that was the reaction I was hoping for, or if I was hoping for any reaction at all. "You mean like a boyfriend?"

"Well, like I like him." He sighed. "What?"

"Nothing." He cleared his throat. "That's good, you know. Companionship…" There was a smile on his face, so hard to read as usual.

"He may be more than that."

"More?"

Sighing, I turned away. Those eyes were slowly driving me insane. "I don't know."

"I'm gonna come see your play tomorrow night," he said.

"You're coming?"

"I'll be there," he said sincerely, lighting a spark of hope within me.

"Don't disappoint me."

"I won't."

For the first time that night, I smiled and meant it from the bottom of my heart. I knew he was watching me as I walked away, blue eyes shining. I couldn't help but wonder, am I as much of a mystery to him, as he is to me?

break-

I arrived at the theater early that day. Even Robby couldn't pick on me for been late. When he walked by the dressing room ready to yell at someone for wasting time, I was already tied into my itchy corset and smiling broadly. He gave me an approving nod, but was obviously disappointed there was no excuse to lose his temper.

As I sat down in front of lit mirrors and began to slather makeup on my face, Joann was already there, putting on her accessories as she gave me a peculiar smile. "You see jittery tonight," she commented.

Until that moment, I hadn't realized that I was trembling. I shrugged. "Oh, you never know who's coming."

She cocked one eyebrow. "I thought your lover has seen the play plenty of times."

"Maybe it's not him."

"Don't tell me you got your astronaut boy and a little action on the side!"

I burst out laughing. "What?"

"Hey, I'm not here to judge, what you do…"

"He's just a friend," I said, trying to control my giggles. She was right, I really was jittery. Suddenly, I couldn't wait to be out on stage. As if on cue, Robby appeared again.

"Five minutes ladies," he said hurriedly. "Five minutes."

I quickly smoothed out the last of the makeup and grabbed my props. Joann followed closely. "Is your lover coming?"

"Not tonight. He has a press conference."

"So your friend is coming, your boyfriend is not…" she pulled at her hem, trying hard not to trip on it. "And you're NOT gonna do anything, you know…"

I jabbed her in the ribs with one finger. "Stop that!"

"Stop what?"

The curtains went up before I could rebuttal. Through a small gap in the curtains I could see the audience. It was a full house. Trying hard as I could, Peter was no where to be found. But it was a big place and the possibilities were endless. He had told me his seat was somewhere in the middle rows.

My first scene was not until the second act. For nearly forty minutes I stood at the gap behind the curtains gazing into the sea of people, and still I could not catch his eyes. Finally, Robby gestured at me to hurry on stage. I did, but walking much slower than I should have.

"…yesterday's lesson."

I was gazing into the audience around the corner of my eye.

"Cecily? Did you hear me? I said we will repeat yesterday's lesson."

My mind snapped into place. Suex, a middle-aged woman who played Miss Prism, was half-glaring at me and half slightly stunned by the horror that I may have forgotten my lines. I looked at her apologetically.

"But I don't like German. It isn't at all a becoming language…" Suex exhaled in relief as I tried hard to concentrate through the rest of the scene.

It was not until the beginning of the third act that I finally found Peter's seat. As I sat across from Joann, speaking the lines that started the scene, a single empty seat in the crowd caught my eye. Though I did not know his seat number, nor could I see the number from onstage, but somehow I knew.

It was a lonely sight that made my heart sink. I didn't know that disappointment could come in so many forms.

"…then you think we should forgive them?"

"Yes," I said. "I mean, no."

Perhaps I walked away a little too fast, because Joann was slightly breathless when she caught up to me.

"He didn't come, did he?"

I supposed it was written all over my face. "No."

"Was it Peter? The one you had the birthday party for?"

"Yea, it was. He said he wasn't going to disappoint me." I cast a glance at the bustling crew. "Guess I was wrong to hope."

Joann laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. "No, you weren't wrong to hope. It was wrong of him to make a promise he can't keep."

I nodded. "I have to go," I told her briefly, and headed out into the streets. She came after me a moment later.

"Hey," she said gently, "you sure don't want to talk about it?"

Smiling tiredly, I nodded. "Yea, I'm sure."

"Yeah?" she said a little dubiously, but leaned forward and pecked me on the cheek. "Call me."

"I will."

"You were great tonight," she called as she disappeared among the sea of pedestrians. I watched her leave, feeling loneliness once more despite the busy streets.

"May I have an autograph please?"

Brown eyes met mine as I turned and came face-to-face with John. Suddenly, I was glad. "What are you doing here?" I exclaimed in surprise, hearing the joy in my own voice and having a hard time believing it.

He placed one warm hand on the back of my head and pulled me close. His kiss was pleasant and loving. I fell into it willingly.

"Are you hungry?"

I grinned. "Starved."

Arms wrapped around each other, we walked down the street toward the corner diner that had become our usual late-dinner spot. Before we got too far, I turned from John and looked across the street. There was an old house with stone steps sitting silently, appearing much darker than the brightly-lit surroundings. A veil of soft light lit the stone steps, casting a strange shadow across it.

Somehow, it looked at if it had just been abandoned.

break-

"Honey?" A hand waved in front of my eyes. I blinked. "Are you listening to me?"

I turned to him. Concern lined his face. "I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

"Doesn't matter. Is something on your mind?"

"No, it's nothing."

He shifted his chair closer to my side. "Are you sure?"

I hesitated. "It's just… Peter didn't come."

"Your friend Peter?"

"He promised he would." A slight shake overtook my voice. "I really wanted him to be there."

"Hey." He tilted my face toward his with one hand. "Don't worry. I'm sure he had a good reason. Maybe dad sent him on a ludicrous assignment or something. If that's the case I'll make sure it never happens again personally. Ok?" A kiss on the corner of my mouth. "I can't stand not to see you smile."

I smiled for him. He returned it. "So what happened?" I asked, eager to change the subject as a skinny waiter brought our food. "I thought you had a long press conference."

"I left early," he said, digging into his roast beef. "It was getting boring. No regrets, though. My dad is entertaining them. They get more out of him than out of me. He likes the spotlight more."

"Oh really?" I teased. "You smile pretty big yourself when you're on TV."

He shrugged. "Not that I don't enjoy the attention sometimes. But I can only repeat the same modest words so many times. And speaking of which…"

"Yeah?"

He laid down his fork and looked at me with mild apprehension. "I was wondering if you'd like to meet my family."

"Your family?"

"You know, like a formal introduction." The boyish nervousness he projected made me feel almost guilty for even considering saying "no". He took my hand and kissed it. "You don't have to if you're uncomfortable."

"It would be nice."

He met my eyes. "Really?"

"Really." I waited for one small part of me to be unconvinced, to take it back. I waited for hesitation and none came. I meant it.

"How about this weekend?"

"That's fine."

Seeming much more relaxed, John went back to his food. I did the same, except my tongue seemed to have lost feeling all the way to the back of my throat.

Life was a strange and curious road, and I was blindfolded.

break-

On the way home that night, I turned a corner and came face to face with at least fifty pairs of eyes, all mine. Every inch of the long wall that stood by the sidewalk was plastered with Emma Rose Posters. They all looked at me, with that same accusing smirk. The hair on the back of my neck stood up at the eeriness of the scene.

I walked past them quickly. There was nothing there for me. I was just another face in New York City.

break-

I didn't hurry when the ringing of the phone seeped through the door, although a burst of anxiety did hit me when I heard his voice.

"Hi, M.J… This is Peter," came his cheery voice one the answering machine as I finally manage to unlock the door with one hand, holding groceries in the other. "I was on my way to your show. And… Well…" There was a mild pause as I closed the door behind me, but keeping both ears sharp. "I was on my bike… Uh…"

The hesitation in his voice annoyed me right away. I tossed my keys next to the phone. It made a fairly loud metallic thump, echoing my frustration. He might have heard the sound, because he asked, in a quiet apologetic voice, "are you there?" I didn't answer.

"I really was planning on it all day," he continued, searching for words as he went. "And I know you predicted I'd disappoint you."

"Bingo," I said sarcastically to the empty room.

"It's amazing, isn't it? How complicated a simple thing, like been some place at eight o'clock can become?" I stopped to listen this time. "Actually, there was this obnoxious usher."

Excuses. I sighed, counting the number of times I've heard them.

"Somebody has to… You time has expired. Please deposit fifty cents for the next five minutes."

I waited for him to put in the money, hoping that he would, if only to keep explaining despite the fact that I didn't really want to hear it. But all that greeted me a moment later was the dial tone.

I walked to the window and gazed out. Millions of busy people passed under my window everyday, hurrying to their respective lives. Their faces were frozen, emotionless, or often in a scowl if anything. Among all of them, I would see a smile every now and then, someone who had something to look forward to.

There was once a time when that face was the face of Flash Thompson. Then, it was Harry Osbourn. Now, there's John, who cared so much, with his brown eyes shining. But after all of it, and before all of it, there was Peter Parker.

But times have changed, just like people changed. That was what I realized that day, standing there looking out, waiting with a silver of false hope that he would call back, or suddenly appear at my door and make things right again. It won't happen. Peter Parker is no longer a smiling face.

He was an empty seat.

break-

When the phone did ring again, daylight had waned, as had my stubborn frustration. I picked it up.

"M.J.?"

I started. "Harry?"

"How are you, M.J.?"

His tone alone told me enough. "Why did you call, Harry?"

He chuckled, perhaps a bit sadly. "Nothing gets by you, huh?"

"Did Peter tell you to call?"

"Yes. He hasn't paid his phone bill. M.J., he's really worried."

I choked back a bitter laugh. "What about?"

"He's worried you're mad at him. Are you mad at him?"

Noises of the street found their way inside. I reach over and closed the window. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I don't think been mad at him will do any good."

Harry sighed. "M.J., he's really sorry."

"I don't want to hear it," I snapped, and immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright."

"I don't want to hear that he's sorry, Harry. I want to see him keep a promise for once."

"He tries. He really does."

"I know that," I said softly. "I know that."

"He wants to let you know he's very sorry."

"Tell him it's okay," I said with forced cheerfulness.

I went to sleep late that night and dreamed of an endless emptiness. Nothing existed save for me and another. I couldn't see this other clearly, except for the fact that he drifted a few feet in front of me, upside down. Or perhaps I was the one who was upside down. In an empty void it's awfully hard to tell.

"I'm sorry," he kept saying. "I'm sorry."

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

AUTHOR'S NOTE: well, here's chapter 4. I have to say the progress is going well. Everyone R&R!

CH 4

At first I was terrified that meeting John's parents would be a repeat of my experience with Norman Osbourn. First appearing to be a high class gentleman in every way, the man had first greeted me warmly, then berated me with bitter coldness to Harry, asking him if he actually thought "a girl that good looking" is after him for his personality. The fear of been labeled a gold-digger once again crept up along my spine as John's house appeared on the horizon.

However, it turned out I was wrong.

A stout, tan-skinned maid with strong arms and thick legs opened the door when John rang. She fussed over him with a frown, telling him he goes out way too much and yelled at him to take off his shoes before turning to me.

"And who is this young lady?" she asked in the tone of a grandmother who pretended to be strict but is all warmth underneath.

"This is Mary Jane, Claudia," John replied, handing her his jacket to hang. "You remember me talking about her. M. J., this is Claudia. She thinks she runs the place."

Claudia gave him a mock glare. "I DO run the place, as you put it," she said sternly. "And it's easier to do so when your father assumes I follow his orders." Before I could utter a greeting, she took my hand firmly. "Now then, what was your name again, darling?"

"It's Mary Jane," I replied. Her skin was hot, brimming with energy. "It's a beautiful house," I added politely.

She laughed. "You can say it's a pigsty for all I care. The master and misses like to keep up appearances and guess who has to do all the work?"

"Seems like you do it fabulously." Her mild manner relaxed me.

She grinned toothily and gave John an exaggerate wink. "I like this one," she said just loudly enough for me to hear.

"Well it's good that she passes your test, Claudia," John put one hand on her back and ushered her toward the interior of the house. "Now if you'll go let mom and dad know we're here."

"Oh alright," Claudia grumbled as she disappear into the living room, calling, "Miss Lizzie, Mister James! Johnny's home!"

I followed John inside as he took my arm. While it was nowhere near the size or luxury of the Osbourn mansion, the house was fairly large and spacious. I soon realized what Claudia meant by "keeping up appearances". Every inch of the oak-themed living room was immaculate. The walls were covered with art pieces that were too pricey for me to recognize. The aroma of new leather drifted about the room, accompanied by perfectly arranged potpourri. Claudia was making her way upstairs as her arm accidentally brushed against a basket on a delicate little stand in the hall, causing some dried flowers to fall out. "Oops," she muttered, and nudged them under the hall rug with her foot before moving on.

"I like her," I whispered to him.

"Good," he whispered back, "she might be the highlight of your visit."

Elizabeth Jameson was a short, pretty woman who had spent a few too many Sunday afternoons asking country-club wives if they wanted more sugar in their tea. She rushed down the stairs in quick, tiny steps and kisses the air beside both my cheeks, careful not to smudge her lipstick.

"How nice to finally meet you, dear," she said, smiling like a gracious hostess should. "And don't you worry, a few minutes under a nice fruit masque will clear those blemishes right up."

And with that, she retreated to the position of a smile in the background for the rest of the visit.

James Jameson was something else. If Norman Osbourn was the epitome of a gentleman bred to perfection by money, Jameson was a man spoiled by the same. He followed his wife down stairs, wearing a striped shirt with brown pants and suspenders. It was the first time I ever saw him up close. He had short, cropped hair and a mustache that reminded me slightly of Adolph Hitler. The same smug look that had appeared on the news the day I met John was on his face, obviously his default state. As she fussed over her son and I, he walked passed us, pulled a cigar out of nowhere, bit off the end, and stuck it roughly into his mouth before speaking.

"So, you must be Mary Jane," he said, the cigar an inherent part of his face. I suddenly realized that he was not a complete person without it. He spoke quickly, each word shooting out of his mouth like a stray bullet.

"Yes, sir," I answered and extended my hand, "it's very nice to m…"

"Well, don't just stand there, come sit down." He strode into the living room, his little wife trailing behind, smiling all the way. I felt John squeeze my hand as we settled into a large couch opposite his father's chair.

"So where did you meet?" Mr. Jameson asked, lifting his feet comfortable onto the ottoman in front of him.

"We met as a restaurant, dad," John replied.

"Restaurant, huh?" Mr. Jameson snorted. "Are you sure? I bet you went to a bar. I keep telling you not to go to bars. You meet the wrong kinds of people." He felt around his pockets and pulled out a lighter. "No offense, doll," he said to me as he lit it.

"Um," I stammered, trying to make sense of the stream of words flowing out of his mouth. "None taken."

He puffed loudly. "That's a good girl. Now then, what do you do?"

"I'm an actress," I said with a hint of pride. "I'm currently in The Importance of Been Ernest."

"She's wonderful," John cut in and I felt myself blush. "I'm seen her show many times."

"Theater, huh?" Mr. Jameson said around his cigar. "No money in theater. You should do TV. You want to do TV? I'll get you hooked up. I Know some people."

I was speechless for a second. "Uh, no, it's alright…"

"M.J.'s great on stage, dad," John said, sensing my hesitation. "And she has a modeling contract, too."

His father narrowed his eyes. "Really?" he said. "Now I recognize you. You're the Emma Rose girl, aren't you?"

Not knowing whether he'd cut me off if I spoke, I simply nodded.

"Great billboard."

"Thank y…"

"A little too much skin if you ask me."

"Well, I…"

"But hey, skin sells, am I right?" He looked around. "I need some coffee, you want some coffee?"

"No, I'm fine," I said quickly. He turned to John.

"I'm fine, too." John said with the same haste.

"Claudia!"

A slightly annoyed face poked out of the hall. "Yes, sir?"

"Coffee."

"In a moment, sir," She disappeared again.

John's mother was wondering about the room throughout the conversation, touching everything once to make sure they were in the exact right position and casting a smile at us once in a while. She was like a happy, oblivious ghost, drifting about making things perfect for the rest of her life. I shuddered inwardly.

Claudia appeared a moment later and set a cup of black coffee in front of Mr. Jameson. He frowned.

"Where's the cream?"

"Cream's bad for you, sir."

"I always take coffee with cream."

"Not according to the doctor's orders." She began to walk away.

"Hey!" he called after her. "You come back here and put cream in this coffee or you'll be looking for another job by nightfall!"

Claudia rolled her eyes all the way to the back of her skull, and I thought I saw a wink as she turned back.

"Whatever the master wants," she said sarcastically and took the cup away.

Seeming pleased with himself, Mr. Jameson blew a thick smoke ring toward the ceiling. "You read the paper, Mary Jane?"

"Yes, sir. Sometimes."

"You been catching on to my big story?"

"Big story?"

"Spiderman. The webbed menace. The city would do well without that nut-bag, don't you think?"

I bit my tongue so hard it bled. John noticed but did not react, nor did I expect him to. "Yes," I forced myself to say the word slowly. "I…"

was glad he cut me off this time. "Good," he said, "that's good. He's a result of a corrupt society. But sure sells a lot of papers though." Claudia came back and set the coffee cup in before him again. "What are you waiting for? A tip? Get out of here."

She did. But the dignity in her step was something his berating couldn't get rid of. I told her so when we left, told her how much I admired her working like this every day. She just grinned.

"The key is to let them think they're in charge," she told me quietly, "he's been drinking non-dairy creamer for four years."

break-

The chilly New York fall was catching up with me. Every year before this one I used to go to central park and sit amidst the falling leaves, the only part of the city where the changing of season actually showed its signs. But this year other things were on my mind as I strolled down the noisy streets, Joann at my side.

"So how was the big meeting," she asked curiously.

"It was fine, I guess."

"Was his dad as big of a jerk as people say?"

"No," I answered a little too quickly.

"Are you lying?"

"Yes."

"Did he grill you?"

"Not too much. About half an hour into the visit he kind of lost interest and started talking about Spiderman."

Joann shook her head and clicked her tongue. "I swear, that guy's obsessed with Spiderman. But that doesn't matter. Did he like you?"

I shrugged. "John says he did. Something about he wouldn't bother to act so high-and-mighty to people he didn't like."

"He must like everyone then," Joanna muttered. "Hey, want to get some frozen yogurt?"

"Are you crazy?"

"What?"

"It's freezing out."

"Your point been?"

I was about to give in when she raised a hand to stop me. "Do you hear that?"

I did. Something in the distance was rumbling, almost like storm clouds approaching. The earth was shaking ever so lightly, as if something heavy was pounding at its core again and again. Neither of us moved for a whole minute, both aware that many pedestrians suddenly sped up and raced in the same direction. Time fast forwarded around us as the sirens began to whine.

The crowd around us suddenly grew thick. I tried my best to keep Joann's thick brown hair in sight as we made our way through it, but lost her anyway. An arm reached out from nowhere and stopped me.

"I'm sorry, miss," a gruff voice said. "You can't go beyond this point."

I looked at the uniformed figure in confusion and somehow felt alarmed. "What happened?"

"I can't tell you that, miss. We don't know yet," he replied, "but you best move along."

Though my common sense told me to comply, an unmistakable tuft of curly brown hair caught my eye. I watched Harry walk out into the chaos of ambulances and fire trucks, survey the area as if estimating the damage, and put on his sunglasses, as if in an effort to hide the anger in his eyes. My feet attempted to carry me forward to him.

"You can't go back there, miss," the policeman said firmly and kept his arm where it was. Harry was been led away from the scene by anther man. I sighed inwardly.

Someone seized my shoulder and pulled me away. I turned to find Joann, breathless in excitement.

"I snuck back there," she told me. "You know that old building by the river? It looks like it imploded."

break-

"Harry Osbourn refused comment."

"The heir of the Oscorp conglomerate disappeared after the incident. Agents refused contact with the media."

"Causes unknown. None of the involved parties came forward."

"…mentioned use of tridium, an extremely rare and powerful substance. The implosion…"

"…only one identified casualty. 39-year-old Rosalie Octavius was found dead upon arrival of the emergency personnel…"

"Otto Octavius…"

I looked up abruptly. Large, burly men crowded around the bar of the small café as usual. Joann was not with me this time, though the heaviness in my heart cried out for her company. Someone was flipping through the channels on the small television again, and each time they found only the same thing.

A photograph appeared on screen, a man with large front teeth and broad lips that matched his smile. His hair was thick and bushy as his eyebrows, which sat on top of small, bright eyes that brimmed with intelligence.

Otto Octavius.

Gonna put Oscorp on the map the way Norman Osbourn never even dreamed of.

Rosalie Octavius. Must be his wife. The channel flipped again, this time to a station that was just displaying the photo of the deceased. She was beautiful; large Spanish eyes, slightly frizzy hair the color of gingerbread, and unlike her husband, her smile seemed to unveil a playful spirit. I couldn't help but shudder at the thought that she was dead at this moment.

"Turn that off!"

A few heads turned, along with mine. The bartender, who was holding the remote, faced the source of voice. He opened his mouth, probably to say something belittling, but seemed to change his mind and closed it again. The group at the bar groaned and scattered as he turned the television off.

The figure hiding in the shadows turned back to his beer and chugged half of bottle. He dropped the empty on the counter and called for another, which the bartender brought with a slightly shaken look on his face, as if he didn't particularly care for the presence of this customer.

"Harry?"

Brown eyes, murky and bloodshot, zoned in on me. His lips parted in a smirk. "Hello, M.J."

I approached him carefully, trying to ignore the rock settling in my stomach. "Are you ok, Harry?"

"I'm fine, M.J.," he said lightly, swirling his beer and taking another drink. "I am so, frigging, fine."

"What happened? The news…"

"Screw the news." He leaned a little closer to me. "You look good. Dressing up for your little boyfriend?"

"What?" I smelled the alcohol on his breath. Too many mornings have I woke up to that smell, with George raving in the kitchen. He was drunk. I put on hand around his arm. "Come on," I said gently, "I'll call a taxi for you."

He pushed me, a little too roughly. "I said I'm fine." He swallowed two large gulps. "Damn that Octavius. He ruined me."

"Octavius?"

"He's nuts. Almost blew up the whole damn city. I never should've listened to him."

"What are you…"

"I'm ruined!" He shouted, jumping off the stool and almost falling over. "Do you understand that, M.J.? I have nothing left!" A few people turned as he steadied himself on the counter. "What are you looking at!"

"Harry, calm down." I pushed him back into his seat. Surprisingly, he allowed it, perhaps too inebriated to resist. "Please."

"Nothing," he said, mostly to himself. "Nothing but Spiderman."

A chill seized my spine. "Spiderman?"

He raised one hand to his face slowly, and curled it into a claw. "He will die at my hands one day," he said in a dangerously low voice. "I will avenge my father. Spiderman's days are numbered."

"Stay here," I told him. "I'll go call Peter. We'll get you home, alright?"

The clawed hand lashed out and grabbed mine, so tightly I had to grimace. "No," he hissed. "Not Peter. Peter's on his side. He has too much fun taking pictures of his bug friend. He's a traitor."

"You're drunk," I said softly, as if to a child. "Let me call you a taxi."

He smirked. "But I can't let you leave, M.J."

The clamminess of his skin suddenly made me nauseous. "What?"

"I lost you once. I can't let you go again."

"Stop it."

He pulled me closer. "Peter stole you from me. I can't let that happen again."

"No…"

"He betrayed me! He stole you away. And now he protects my father's killer."

"Harry he's your friend!" His grip tightened as I tried to pull away. "Let go of me!"

"I said I can't do that!" He snapped and rose to his full height, suddenly towering over me. Before I could react, his arms snaked around me and pinned my body close to his. Then his lips were against mine. I could taste the beer on his tongue as he forced it into my mouth. I couldn't breath.

Then it was all gone. I gasped for breath. He had stepped back, and was looking at me with lost eyes, as if confused about what had just taken place.

Angry tears welled up in my eyes and threatened to overflow. I charged forward and pushed him hard with both hands. He stumbled back and didn't even blink. The dazed expression on his face made me itch to strike him.

"I'm sorry," he said, barely above a whisper. "I don't know what came over me."

"Shut up," I said, wiping my lips angrily and avoiding his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"I said shut up."

The other diners had finally turned back to their own affairs. I call a taxi from the payphone in the corner, keeping an eye on Harry all the while. He never moved from his stool, sitting completely still like a child on time-out. As I rode to his mansion with him, he fell asleep in the cab, his head on my shoulder.

"I missed you, M.J.," he muttered in his sleep. "We should've stayed together. I really missed you."

For the first time since the funeral, I looked at his face, and saw nothing but a young boy without his father.

break-

Spiderman made the front page again the next day. The Bugle did an excellent job of placing all blame on him, successfully labeling the incident a "catastrophe" that threatened the entire city. Buried among the list of charges against the webbed-hero were eye-witnesses who insisted that had Spiderman not intervened, worsening of the situation was inevitable, but they were dismissed as usual, after been cited just enough to meet legal requirements. I stared at his picture for the long time, holding the paper at a distance that mothers are always telling their children they would ruin their eyes with.

Oscorp has definitely been put on the maps. Somehow, I was sure that Norman Osbourn had never dreamed of it this way.

Loving arms draped across my shoulders and neck. I was slightly annoyed when John placed a kiss on my cheek, but knew that the frustration within was my own problem.

"Thinking about your friend?"

I started. "What?"

He pointed at the paper over my shoulder. "Peter Parker. He takes those pictures of Spiderman right?"

Peter. Of course he meant Peter… "No," I answered and tossed the paper aside. "Not really."

He chuckled and held me tighter. "Big fan of Spiderman then?"

In his warm embrace, I felt myself relaxing. "No," I repeated. "Not really."


	5. Chapter 5

ARTHOR'S NOTE: First let me apologize profusely to my fans for holding out on this story. I had too much going on at once and couldn't do much about it. But this story is been finished. Please bear with me. I love you all!

CH 5

The alarm clock read 6:02 pm when I opened my eyes and sat up abruptly. I had settled for a short nap and woke nearly four hours later, though it felt more like having plunged into a black hole and emerged on the other side a split second later than a restful sleep. Suddenly feeling the sense of urgency that plagued this city 24-7, I grabbed the first jacket that caught the corner of my eye and raced out to the street at a speed too fast for my still-sleepy legs to comprehend. But stumbling was a reasonable risk to take if it meant for-going Robby's standard speech to anyone who was more than exactly three and a half minutes late.

It took Joann jabbing her fingernail into the soft spot on my cheek three times before I realized I had been sitting unmoving in front of the makeup counter for quite some time. I raised her hand to stop her before she did it a fourth time.

"That hurts you know."

"Obviously not enough," she said smartly and began to do my hair, pulling it this way and that somewhat harder than usual. "Or you would've stopped me the first time I did it. What's with you today?"

As if in a fog, I watched her in the mirror. Every movement she was doubled and tripled in my eyes, almost like a tape playing in slow motion. "Beats me," I said softly, not quite feeling the words.

"Well you better wake up," she said and gave my hair a tug so hard that I cried out in pain. "Unless you want Robby to yell again. Although it seems like you don't care either way today."

"Of course I care."

With a sigh, she propped down on the counter in front of me. "Is Peter bothering you again?"

I blinked. "Peter?"

"Peter."

"No, I haven't seen him."

"That's not what I mean and you know it." She began to apply blush liberally about my cheeks. "I mean are you still bothered by him, as in are you still mad? Disappointed? Want to punch his lights out but can't because you're too much of a lady?"

"I don't know."

"All of the above then?" She tightened the knots on my corset. "Gimme your finger. Good."

"Something like that."

"You wanna know what I think?"

"Do I have a choice?"

She glared at me. "Don't be smart. That's my job."

"Sorry."

"Good girl." Three more knots appeared, choking off what little breath I felt I had at the moment. "Now, what I think is that you need to let go. He's a big boy. Let him take care of himself and you need to take care of yourself."

"I do take care of myself."

"Not now you're not." She flicked me on the forehead with two fingertips. "All you're doing is worrying about him. I can tell. Your eyes sort of glaze over when you think about him, and you forget stuff, like lines and such. Not to mention that one night when you almost went onstage with your straps hanging in the back. Could've flashed the whole audience."

"That was you!"

"Was it?" She tilted her head in thought. "Oh yea it was!"

"And it was no accident."

"Yea too bad Robby caught me. Would've won a hundred bucks off that costumes guy who dared me. Anyway," the seriousness that rarely if ever appeared on her face returned, "there are other things in your life you know. Your career, your hot astronaut, and yours truly."

A smile crept across my face. "You're right," I told her playfully, "I do have my hot astronaut."

Joann hopped down from the counter and laid one hand on my shoulder. "So stop worrying so much," she said gently. "There are other things in this world than one boy who doesn't want to make room in his life for you."

Nothing in the world could sum up the feeling of gratitude I felt as I listened to those words. I best I could do was a simple statement. "Thank you."

"Are you good now?"

"I am good now."

"Good." She left my side and tiptoed to the edge of the curtains. "Look at that big crowd tonight. Be sure to double-check your straps this time."

"That was YOU!"

"Same diff. Hey, come check out this dude," she gestured for me to come to the stage. "It's amazing what kind of people they let into this place."

I made my way to her side and peeked out. "Where?"

"Fourth row to the left," Joann said, pointing. "That bald, fat guy that's grimacing at everything. What stone age did he crawl out of?"

"That's my stepfather."

She blanched. "Whoa, I'm sorry," she stammered, "I uh, I…"

"It's alright." I raised a hand before she hurt herself. However hard it was to believe, George was here, all two hundred and twenty pounds of him, stuffed uncomfortably into a suit that was turning a darker shade starting with the armpits. Unshaven and frozen in a steady frown, I could not disagree with Joann that he did indeed seem like he should be carving the first wheel out of stone in spite of the getup.

Besides him, looking frail but beaming brightly, sat my mother. She had lost more than a few pounds and gained more than one shade of gray hair in the past few month, but in her eyes, I saw pride like I had never seen before.

break-

George snorted gruffly, not entirely unlike an irritated boar. Though seemingly busy undoing her own costume, Joann was throwing curious glances at the backstage door, where I stood with George. She had heard more than a fair share of horror stories about him, in spite of the fact that deep down I was actually glad to see him for once.

Very, VERY deep down.

He snorted again. "Your mother couldn't come," he muttered. "Had to stick her in a taxi n' send her home when she starts coughing, doctor's orders. Sends her love n' all that."

I smiled. "Thanks George."

"Don't read nothing into it," he said. "Boring lot if you ask me, all of ya."

"That's good to know."

"She wants ya to know she's proud." He leaned his huge bulk against the doorframe and let his eyes wonder off a little. "Wants me to tell ya that yer 'daddy' is proud."

In spite of knowing what was coming next, I couldn't stop smiling. "And I'm guessing that 'daddy' is not as thrilled?"

Then he did something surprising. He looked into my eyes. "Don't get me wrong," he said, and I could almost detect sincerity. "Good thing yer doing here. Getting out of the house n' all. Bringin' bacon, makin' something of yerself."

"All that jazz."

"All that jazz," he said, and snorted again. "Now then, you didn't think I was just here being yer mom's messenger boy didja?"

Same old George, I thought. But somehow it was comforting, knowing that at least one thing in my life would never change. "Of course not."

"So that money I gave ya when you left, plus a little interest…" He rubbed his fingertips together as if counting cash. "Whatever ya got, how 'bout that? I'm a little tight."

That's an understatement, I thought, staring at the ready-to-burst seams of his old, three-sizes-too-small suit. "Wait here," I told him, and went in search of my wallet, which, to my surprise, Joann was holding out to me.

"He wants money right?"

I took it from her and began to pull out whatever bills and coins I had. "How'd you know?"

"I've dated a few like him."

"Ew."

"I know."

"And gave them money?" The wrinkled wads I managed to gather totaled $43.58.

"No, I usually dump 'em whenever it gets to that point." She eyed the money disapprovingly. "So why are you giving him money again?"

"Because, Joann," I said seriously, "like you said, there are other things in life that deserves my attention."

"And that includes the caveman?"

"That includes family." Without letting her have another word, I ran the money to George, whose face broadened into its own smile when he saw it. He took it, and before leaving, he waved back at me and called, "great show!"

break-

The little diner on the corner was warm and humming with friendly conversation as usual, but I couldn't register any of it, including the one I was supposedly having with John. I blinked and saw that he was sitting very close, his elbows on the table and cradling his face with his hands the way little boys do when they watch something very interesting on TV. He was staring at me silently with intense concern.

"I was wondering how long before you'd notice," he said.

"Notice what?" I heard my own voice and wondered if it really sounded so weak.

"That I wasn't talking."

I shook my head guiltily. "I'm sorry, John."

He touched my cheek lovingly. "Is something bothering you?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. No right words came to mind. "I'm just not very good company tonight," I said lamely and began to stand. "I should go home."

He grabbed my hand. "First of all," he said. "Never say my girlfriend isn't good company. She's the best company in the world. And second," he guided me back down into my seat gently, "you look so tired. I can't let you go home alone like this."

Still at a loss for words, I kissed him. "I'm so lucky," I told him, barely above a whisper, "to have you."

He held my hand tightly. "That would make you the second luckiest person in the world."

I wasn't certain what I was waiting for at that moment, perhaps for the roof to cave in or the walls to explode, so that what seems like perfection could disappear like perfection should. But nothing happened, and John was still there, smiling only for me.

"Why don't you spend the night with me?"

"With you?"

"Before you think too much," he raised one finger seriously. "I'm not that kind of guy."

"It's not that," I said quickly, but feeling a hanging weight drop in my stomach. "I thought you're staying with your parents right now to make it easier for the news crews to come by."

"Screw the news," he said. "I have a place on this side of town that I stay at whenever things get too hectic, or if my dad has too much coffee and feels like calling a press conference. It's not fancy, but there's bed big enough for two." He paused. "And a fold-out couch."

break-

In terms of furnishing, John's bachelor pad was head and shoulders above mine. Even though nothing matched, a sign that he selected everything for comfort not appearance, it was cozy and beautiful to my eyes. The living room consisted of a large couch that was much squashier than it appeared and two sofas sitting around a bushy, colorful carpet. The only bedroom had a queen-size bed covered in his grandmother's quilts and one single dresser. The most exemplary piece in the entire place was his enormous flat-screen television and a stereo whose brand I could not pronounce.

He laid out the bed for me, and even found me an old T-shirt to wear, then proceeded to open the fold-out couch for himself. I stopped him, took him by the arm, and led him to the bedroom.

Neither of us said a word that night, as we undressed each other and laid side by side, keeping warm by the heat between us and allowed sleep to take over. For some, it may seem as if nothing exciting happened and the whole thing was not worth the words it took to describe it, but for me it was a sort of heaven I had never thought I would experience in this life, as he wrapped both arms around me and shielded me from the cold world.

"I love you, Mary Jane," he whispered into my ear throughout the night. "I love you so much."

Nothing in the world could wake me to reality that night. Even if the earth shook and the sun burst with red fire, I would have laid there and waited for it to pass.

Nothing.

break-

Three messages awaited me when I returned to change cloth before the next evening's performance. The first was from my mother, obviously worried that George did not deliver her message. To all honesty, I was very surprised that he did, almost to the letter. Perhaps the money had something to do with it, but one can't pick family. Though denying hard as I could, George had indeed become family, more so after I left home.

The second was from Joann, informing me that she had picked up a couple of "lookers" in a bar and will milk them for some extra cash if I needed replenishing after George's visit.

The last, lengthiest, and most unexpected message was from Harry.

"Hi, M.J.," came his voice from the machine, hints of instability showing through his usual gentlemanly composure. "I just wanted to talk to you. You're the one who brought me back the other night, right?" A forced chuckle. "Must've been you. Not many people would fit the 'pretty little lady with red hair' description." A tired sigh. "I don't remember if I said anything to you then. If I didn't say or did something inappropriate, don't worry about it. But if I did, I'm sorry. It felt like a dream. If I did what I think I did… Oh god, I'm so sorry." I placed a finger on the "delete" button. "You're getting serious with John Jameson aren't you?"

Though I did not know why those words had such an impact, my finger snapped back as if been electrocuted. I stared at the machine, suddenly feeling as if I was preparing to defend myself against a heinous crime.

"I bet you're wondering how I know," it continued in the same soft, sad monotone. "Things get around in certain circles. But fortunately, they usually stay inside the circle. Don't worry, I won't tell Peter until you say so.

"And speaking of Peter. I'm sorry about that, too. I don't mean to drag you into the middle of it. Hell, I don't want you in the middle of it. God knows you've been through enough. This is between me and… Peter. Me and Peter. But I all want right now is to know that you forgive me. I'm sorry. It's been a rough patch."

The Osbourn mansion has increased its security exponentially since the death of its previous master. Three phone lines are generally in use--one for business, answered by a secretarial service off the estate, one for more intimate and important appointments that take place on the premises, answered by the head butler, and one for Harry's personal affairs, also answered by the butler.

A fourth line is hardly ever answered. It led to a phone inside one of Harry's smaller workspaces. He checks the messages on it every other day personally. It was this number that I dialed and left three words.

"I forgive you." I paused, then added three more. "Don't tell Peter."

It wasn't until I put the phone back into its cradle that I remembered Peter already knew. I had told him on the night of his birthday party. But that was alright, I told myself. He didn't know anymore than that and there was no reason for him to know. John was not any of his concern, and neither am I. Not anymore.

A copy of the Bugle sat quietly on the kitchen counter, its familiar red-and-blue front page flashing brightly. Even though John had driven me home, I had picked it up at a nearby bus stop out of habit.

Without giving it a second glance, I swept it off the counter with one hand into the wastebasket.

break-

"And where were YOU last night?" Joann asked pointedly as soon as I closed the backstage entrance behind me.

I grinned and pushed past her. "What makes you think I wasn't there?"

"Because you didn't answer when I called."

"I was out."

"At 2:30 in the morning?"

"Maybe." I dumped my jacket and purse next to hers on the makeup counter. "Wait a minute, why did you call me at 2:30 in the morning?"

"I was at the bar."

"At 2:30 in the morning?"

"Some of us enjoy the night life." She walked around me, and pushed me into a chair by the shoulders. "But this isn't about me, it's about you young lady," she said, fussing with my hair as usual.

"If you MUST know," I said with equal mock contempt, "I spent the night with John." Her mouth opened but was clamped shut again by my hand. "Don't start. Nothing happened."

"Is that so? Well I'm SURE that's the case since he sent you this nice little thank-you note." Still holding my hair in place with one hand, she pulled out an envelope that I just noticed was tucked into the waist of her costume and dropped it in my lap.

"A thank-you note?"

She shrugged and went back to her task. "I donno. Didn't read it."

"Is this it?" I asked, turning it over in my hands.

"It came with chocolates."

"Ah."

break-

The note, as it turned out, was an invitation that John had hand-written for me. It read as follows:

_Dear Miss Watson,_

_I regret to inform you that I was unable to weasel my way out of yet another boring banquet. Seeing how it is supposedly held in my honor, I would like to request the company of the most beautiful woman in the world. Your carriage will arrive the day after tomorrow at 7:30 p.m. _

_Location: Planetarium_

_Start Time: 8:00 p.m._

_End Time: hopefully early_

_Dress Code: The occasion calls for black, but when one is in the company of the most beautiful woman in the world, even a burlap sack will do._

_Love and smile,_

_John_

When I readied myself that night, I chose a black dress, even though I have had many reasons to associate black dresses with bad luck, I put it on anyway and prettied myself generously with light-colored makeup and the most tasteful jewelry I could find, something I had not done in a long time.

Beside the mirror sat John's note. As I went about my tasks, my eyes couldn't help but sneak a peek at it now and then. I waited for apprehension to build up, as it did whenever Harry requested my presence at a formal event, or a sense of dread, which reared its head whenever Flash wanted me anywhere.

When John arrived to pick me up, I gave myself one last look in the mirror. The dress was strapless and showed slightly more skin than I was used to; my hair was worn up in an attempt to look classier than I really felt; and I wore my mother's old dangling earrings.

The whole getup was not unlike the Oscorp World Fair two years ago.

And yet, it was different, I thought to myself. Something was not the same. The image in the mirror was old, wiser, and knew right choices from wrong ones.

And she was smiling.

John was holding the door of the car open for me when I emerged from the stairwell. He was wearing his uniform, decorated and gleaming in the wash of the streetlight. He was not Harry, and he wasn't Flash either. He was the best choice I had ever made.

I kissed him firmly before climbing inside. He seemed momentarily stunned, and smiled broadly when he closed the door and made his way to the driver's side.

"You look beautiful," he said, studying me up and down. "Not that it's any different from any other time."

I allowed myself to keep smiling and enjoyed it. "You never get tired of that, do you?"

"Of admiring you? Never." He put the car into gear. "Ready?"

Leaning toward him, I laid one hand across his chest and whispered, "not yet."

As I pulled him close to me my mind wandered. Part of it questioned whether this feeling will last forever; part of it asked if this was what I had been looking for, waiting for all along.

But most of it was blurred, phased out by his kiss, a spot of real warmth on a cold night.


	6. Chapter 6

AUTHOR'S NOTE: let me say a few things… first, I am SO VERY thankful for all of you who haven't given up on this story. I've done it so many times but every time I do someone, well, hounds me until I pick it up again. I appreciate the encouragements so much. Second, this story is actually near-completion and I just can't find the energy to finish it. But, it will be finished eventually. I won't be able to rest until it is. Third, due to my waning interest in Spiderman, there may not be a story to go with the third movie unless I feel really, really motivated. The chances of me writing one right now feels about 20 percent. With that said, enjoy the chapter and review please!

CH 6

The Planetarium was dazzling.

Many times in my life within this city I had walked or driven past the towering building, and briefly wondered what was inside. Yet the opportunity nor the desire had ever presented itself for me to find out. As I gazed at the shining model planets suspended in mid-air, the sky-colored dome ceiling, and the impeccably dressed people, I knew that this was one of the most stunning structures in New York at its best.

John, however, seemed less than impressed by it all, most likely as a result of having been forced to attend one too many overly-primped occasions in his honor. A large stairway extended to the center of the reception area from the second floor, and it was to this that he led me, away from the crowd.

"Come on, John," I said, laughing at the worried look on his face as he pulled me to a back door. "You're pulling my arm off. Why are we back here anyway?"

He stopped and kissed me on the cheek apologetically. "Sorry babe," he said, "we're a little late and we're supposed to make an appearance."

"An appearance?"

"Don't ask me. The press people arranged it." The elevator arrived with a soft "ping" and the doors slid open. "Besides," he added, leading me inside, "I'll take any few moments of privacy I can get," and pulled me close as the doors allowed themselves to close.

All formalities aside, the view from the second floor was gorgeous. As I stood by the railings with John waiting for our cue, the beautifully painted planets were almost at eye-level. The people beneath moved like the ocean, with waves of velvet, sequin, and classy conversation. The decorated buffet table and polished bar sat like islands with it. In the corner was a band that looked like something out of an old movie, playing soft music that seemed to thread itself into the crowd.

Slightly hypnotized by it all, I followed the slightly intoxicated patrons to and from the bar with my eyes. Their steps seem to take on a dream-like quality as they depart from it.

All except one, who sat solidly since my arrival and never stood. My eyes passed over him then back again, landing on the dark curly hair, black suit, and the exact way he bent over the bar the night he forced a drunken kiss on me.

"John?" I laid a hand on John's arm. "Is that Harry?"

He looked up. "Harry Osbourn? At the bar?"

"Yea," I replied, still keeping my eyes on him.

"He's been coming to these things more often since he took over Oscorp, though I hear he tends to be a bit of a loner when he gets there," John said, and suddenly Harry's talk of information traveling in certain circles popped into my head. "You're friends, right? Do you want to go say hi to him?"

As I watched, Harry ordered another drink and from the looks of it, told the bartender to leave the bottle. "Maybe later," I muttered.

Another figure was approaching Harry, but before I could get a better look John took my arm and wrapped it around his. "It's almost time," he said, and pointed to a podium on a risen platform within the reception hall, where a woman with three pounds of hair and a smile plastered with lipstick was approaching. "That's Sharon," John whispered to me. "I think her sole purpose in life is to introduce famous people."

"Ladies and gentlemen, good evening," the woman named Sharon said into the microphone as just as John fell silent. "The Committee for the Science Library of New York is pleased to present our guest of honor. He's the first man to play football on the moon." A polite chuckle weaved through the crowd and Sharon's smile broadened even more, so much that I thought her face was going to split in two. "The handsome, the heroic, the delicious…"

"Delicious indeed," I whispered into John's ear and he blushed ever so slightly.

"…Captain John Jameson!"

The band struck up a tune that I couldn't name off the tip of my tongue but before I had more time to think about it, lights were shining on us from all directions. John patted the hand I had on his arm, and began to lead me down the stairs.

The gathered crowd began to clap, and together with music drowned out our footsteps. John and I smiled at each other as we descended, as if walking on air. Each note of the music harmonized with our movement.

Nothing in the world could be more soothing than that moment, as I felt myself smile at each face below. For the first time, in a long, long while, I felt beautiful.

Until I saw the one person that wasn't clapping. He stood there frozen, lost in the crowd. But once I saw him I could not un-see him. He watched us. No, he watched me, blue eyes burning and lips hanging slightly open, as if at a loss for not just words, but everything else.

Peter.

The music suddenly seemed very distant, as did the applause and endless lights. I felt as if I was walking alone, toward him and no one else. But that was unacceptable, because I knew, he had no right to be here, to be in this part of my life at all.

I broke the gaze and force myself to listen to the music, to the noise, to Mr. Jameson shouting something. It was difficult. When I turned back again, searching for his eyes once more, I could not find it. All I could see, was that hideous camera lens, separating the world we once shared.

oOo

As John was mobbed by a group of little old upper-class ladies for autographs, I slipped away into the bathroom and splashed cold water in my face. A few women tossed curious glances at me. I couldn't blame them. I must have been quite a sight, leaning over the sink, dripping wet from my forehead to my chest, droplets of water soaking the front of my dress. For reasons unknown, I was breathing hard.

But the reason was clear as day, just hard to admit. It was because he was here, and his eyes bore deep into my mind.

Another woman walked in and gave me a passing look. Quickly dabbing the front of my dress with paper towel, I smiled at her through the mirror and she didn't seem to think much of it. I sighed as she entered a stall on the far end of the bathroom.

Why was he here?

I knew the answer to that. He was taking pictures, of course, but that was not the real question. What I was truly wondering, was WHY he suddenly waltzed into my life again, into the part that he was not supposed to be in, the part he was not supposed to know about.

That was a different question--what did it matter if he knew?

I buried my face in the damp paper towel and waited for tears to come, to flow like an abandoned river, but they didn't. I was afraid to remove it and see my own face again in the mirror, because when I did, I would have to admit to myself how many lies I've been telling to myself.

Admit that Joann was wrong.

He may not make room for me in his life, but his presence has taken up permanent residence in mine long ago.

Even as I ignored his photos in the paper; even as I searched for more in life; even as I held John in my arms, I could not forget him. He was always there. Whether he was staring me straight in the face or hiding behind that ugly camera lens, he was always there.

But he wasn't reliable. He wasn't family. George has become more family than he has. He's not the one I love, and barely a friend anymore.

And yet, in spite of the fact that I hated what it did to me, I could not forget.

John was waiting for me at the door. He reached for my hand when I emerged but I brushed it off gently.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Not knowing what else to say, I nodded. "Listen," he said, "can I…"

"I need some air," I said, surprising myself.

He stopped. "Well," he said hesitantly, "want me to get your coat?"

"No I can get it," I smiled, hoping it was more convincing than it felt. "Go ahead and mingle. I'll be back in a minute."

"Ok, but I…"

"I'll be right back," I said, and began to make my way through the crowd.

"Wait, M.J.!…" He called after me but was soon swallowed by the ocean of people.

oOo

The chilling air did less for me than I had hoped, but I stayed outside anyway. To be away from the noise was at least somewhat calming, although been alone with my thoughts was no picnic either. As I contemplated the cruelty of fate, a voice came from behind.

"Hi." It was a tad breathless. I recognized it even before turning around.

"Oh," I said, a bit more bitterly than I had intended, "you."

"Listen," Peter said, desperation in his voice, "I'm sorry. But, there was a disturbance.."

"I don't know you," I said, cutting him off. "And I can't keep thinking about you." A bubble of anger and sadness was rising through me, lodged inside my chest, causing me to breath every word with difficulty. But he just kept looking at me. It didn't help in the least. "It's too painful."

Unexpectedly, he said, "I've been reading poetry lately."

"Whatever _that _means."

He moved a little closer to me. "Day by day he gazed upon her," he said, "day by day he sighed with passion, day by day…"

It took a few moments for me to realize he was reciting a poem. "Don't start."

The poetry faded. "Can I get you a drink?" he asked, but somehow it sounded apologetic.

"I'm with John," I snapped. "He'll get me my drink."

If someone had passed by at that moment, they would've thought I threw a brick in his face. "John," he repeated inanimately.

"By the way," I continued. "John has seen my show five times. Harry has seen it twice. Aunt Mary has seen it." Somehow it felt like I was rattling off numbers for effect and nothing else, but it didn't matter. A part of me, the one that was abandoned again and again by those blue eyes, wanted to say it, wanted to throw it all in his face and walk away. "My sick mother got out of bed to see it, even my father…"

My instinct at that moment would have told me to correct myself, but the abandoned part of me scoffed and went on. "…he came back stage to borrow cash. But my best friend, who cares SO much about me, can't make an eight o'clock curtain."

I took a breath. "After all these years, he's nothing to me but an empty seat."

And with that I did walk away. It wasn't fair, my heart said, and I knew that clearly. What I had said was not fair, but neither was how he treated me. Eye for an eye, I told myself firmly, eye for an eye.

A hand closed over mine, and I looked up to see John. He was smiling nervously as he led me to a secluded corner.

"Are you alright?" he asked again.

"Yes I'm fine, John," I replied with a relaxed tone after some difficulty.

"That's good." The hand over mine drew me closer. "I wanted to ask you something."

Dark clouds filled my mind. "Now? I'm kind of tired."

"Just a second, please," he said earnestly, and dropped to one knee.

"John, what are you…" my words drifted into the air as he pulled the velvet box out of his pocket.

"I love you, Mary Jane," he said, brown eyes fixating on me intensely. "Would you do the honor of being my wife?"

All I could do was stare as he opened the box to reveal the most beautiful diamond ring I had ever seen, not to mention the biggest. But even then nothing registered in my mind, so I kept on staring.

"Mary Jane?" he said shakily. "Will you marry me?"

A million thoughts raced through my head in the split second I watched him, still on his knees waiting for my answer. A single one finally separated itself from the mass, the same words I said to Peter.

I can't keep thinking about…

Him.

Life was waiting.

"Yes," I said, and dropped to my knees, wrapping both arms around him. "Yes, I will!"

He nearly fell over, but the next thing I knew, he had swept me off my feet and was spinning me in the air. "I love you," he said. "I love you so much!"

Suddenly he set me down. "Wait a second!" he said, strode toward the podium Sharon had introduced us from not long ago, and leaped onto the risen platform.

"Wait, what are you…"

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said into the microphone before I could stop him. "I just wanted you all to know that the beautiful Miss Mary Jane Watson has just agreed to marry me."

The lights were on me again and for the second time that night, people clapped for me as a wave of "aww"s drifted through the crowd. I felt the heat rise in my face and couldn't stop smiling as John pulled me onto the platform and kissed me warmly.

I heard John's father yelling at Peter to take pictures. I didn't turn to face him, didn't look for him. Things have changed now, and I have chosen a pair of eyes not hidden behind the camera.

oOo

The weeks that followed passed as if in a dream. Everywhere I went, my footsteps felt as if they fell on a cloud, with the weight on my left ring finger been the only thing that held me to the ground. Vaguely, from my place up in heaven, I heard my mother's excited sobs, George's hearty congratulations on "baggin' a rich one", and Joann's thrill, excited shrieks every time I showed her the ring. Smiling, I allowed myself to be wrapped up in all of it, like a warm, thick blanket.

A week after John's announcement, a congratulatory dinner was held at a country club commonly attended by the Jamesons. It comprised only of my family and his (which included Claudia upon both our insistence, although John's father grumbled audibly about deducting her meal out of her salary). It was a rocky occasion to say the least, with the highlight been George and Mr. Jameson arguing about the best way to split the bill. Both mothers smiled at each other politely, ignoring it all with long-practiced patience. Claudia commented loudly to a waiter that the lettuce in the salad was wilted.

Despite the prying gazes from nearby tables, I slipped my hand into John's under the table as we watched with helpless smiles the scene before us. At long last, Claudia tapped her glass with a fork.

"To the happy couple!" she belted. "May they have many more good days and many less embarrassing dinners!"

Our parents raised their glasses in suit, with Mr. Jameson's face turning a slight rose shade at her comment. Thankfully, he said nothing. I breathed with relief inside at not inviting Joann. There was no imagining the things she could have said at such a time.

I felt John's hand slip away and turned to see him getting to his feet. Grinning ear to ear, he raised his glass and bowed slightly to Claudia.

"Thank you for that lovely toast," he said. "Really, couldn't have said it better myself." A wave of soft laughter drifted across the table. He faced the parents. "My future bride and I thank you for being here tonight." He looked at mom and George. "Mom, dad, I hope I meet your approval. Here's to you. "

The dewy-eyed look my mother was giving John was more than enough for an answer. George had the same look on his face, but it was most likely intended for his wallet.

Still smiling amiably, John turned to his own parents. "Thanks for the support, mom and dad. I love you both. Here's to dad not scaring away the wedding guests."

Claudia was the only one who burst into a fit of laughter over this. Trying hard as I could, I found it hard not to do the same an wound up taking a hurried drink of water and pretending that I didn't find it funny. "Coincidentally", the rest of the table did the same as Mr. Jameson scowled at his son, who pretended not to notice.

Placing one hand on my arm, John gently brought me to my feet beside him and slipped an arm around my waist so that we were face-to-face. The table sunk into a respectful silence as he kissed me on the forehead.

"And to us," he said.

oOo

I sat on my bed that night, playing with the ring around my finger into the wee hours of morning. First it caught the moonlight, then it greeted me with the reflected light of dawn when I woke up after dozing off.

It was not the first time a boy presented me with a ring. Sometimes I could still remember the feeling of Flash's class ring around my finger. It didn't fit, not even close, and always felt like a dead weight on my hand. This ring was different. Aside from the perfect size, it also represented something besides what Flash had had in mind.

No confusion this time, no hesitation. Instead of buying my affection, John had earned it, and nothing was stopping me from giving him my all.

In the midst of running errands for the day, I found myself resting on a bench across the street from a tall, white cathedral. Its majestic walls seemed to climb forever, topped by a bell tower that rung out each and every hour, echoing through the bustling streets.

"Isn't it lovely?" a voice said. I turned to see an elderly woman wearing a large, wide-brimmed black hat maneuvering herself carefully into the empty seat next to me. She was about seventy years old at least, and held a cane in one hand.

I nodded. "Yes, it is."

She leaned a little closer as if parting a secret, and whispered, "I got married there, you know."

I smiled at the face hidden under the tilting rim of her hat, which was blocking nearly half her body from the sun. "Really?"

"Yep, yep," she said, and sighed. "Many happy years." She pointed at my hand. "Seems like you're not so far behind yourself."

Dreamily, I gazed at the cathedral again. "No, I don't suppose I am."

"You should consider getting married here, you know," she went on. "Nice place. Nice choir too if you come here for service. I come here on holidays mostly. Especially Christmas. Good stuff. My husband always came with me before it was his time, bless his heart."

I gazed at her sympathetically. "I'm so sorry."

"No need," she said. "I always thought there was no need to be sorry about anything long as there's no regrets. Gotta keep living, am I right?"

Amazed at how much she sounded like Aunt May, I nodded again, and she gave me an appraising look, the kind a grandmother would give a young grandchild before they leave for church. "So when the big event?"

"I don't know," I replied, shaking my head. "It all happened to sudden. We really haven't made any plans yet."

The woman nodded her head slowly. "That's what I like about you young people these days," she said. "You seize the moment, grab onto it. Something these old bones just can't do anymore." She began to get up, seeing that I moved to help, gestured that I needn't.

"Yep," she mumbled as she walked away. "Just gotta know what you want."


	7. Chapter 7

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm straggling along…

CH 7

Until one fateful night at the theatre, my life was as happy and normal as any girl could hope. John came to see my play one more time before finally admitting that though he was far from bored with me, he was growing rather tired of the same old plot. For a few weeks after that, he busied himself with minor press conferences that now centered around our engagement rather than his achievement. He seemed rather pleased at the change.

Aunt May showed up at my door one clear evening, having caught wind of the news and wanting to give me her congraduations personally. As I invited her inside, it was difficult not to notice how tired and thin she appeared, topped off with the disappointment in her eyes as I showed her my ring. Though I knew how much hope she must have held for Peter and I, I pretended not to notice.

The play went on as usual after most of the cast lost interest in ogling the engagement ring. Robby pulled me aside one day before opening and inquired about the possibility of obtaining some additional funding from my "new family", having heard that they were well-off. But as soon as I mentioned James Jameson's name, he sighed dejectedly and never brought it up again.

Mr. Jameson offered to send me a free month's trial of the Bugle, followed by a lifetime subscription at half price. I smiled and declined as politely as possible, using not having time to give it proper attention an excuse.

One of the actors took sick. His understudy went onstage drunk, no one noticed until the third act. Having gone too far into the play, Robby had no choice but to let the show go on. Thankfully, if there were critics in the audience, they didn't notice either. For the next two weeks, the incident was the juiciest piece of gossip backstage.

When I arrived that night, prepared for one of the last shows of the season, Joann had beat me as usual and, as usual, was engaged in an argument with somebody. Still haven't mastered my hair, I had to pull her away for help.

"So?" She asked, expertly arranging my hair into the perfect shape without even looking.

"So what?"

"What we talked about before. So when's the wedding."

I shrugged. "Looking like early April."

She clicked her tongue. "Coming up pretty soon. Feel old yet?"

"Why would I feel old?"

"'Cause," she said matter-of-factly, "getting married makes you old. Especially you."

"What do you mean especially me?"

"You're already old." She twisted my head as I turned to look at her. "Don't move. You're old because you think too much. There's way too much stuff on your mind all the time and it's wearing you out."

I looked into the mirror in front of me. "I don't look that bad."

"Not _bad_. Old." Joann put the last pin in place. "But I have to admit, you look better these days. Like you're not thinking so much anymore. You even smile more instead of just staring into space. I must say, the astronaut boy must be doing you worlds of good."

A thin blush worked its way onto my cheeks. "He is," I said, feeling a little embarrassed. "He definitely is."

"So what's his technique?"

"Technique?"

"You know, in the bedroom."

Having long learned to expect this, I reached back and swatted blindly at whatever part of her I could reach. She laughed and grabbed my hand.

"I'm kidding," she said. Her fingers tightened around mine. "Are you happy, Mary Jane?"

The question took me by surprise. For a moment our eyes met in the mirror and I saw how serious she was. I smiled at her, as reassuringly as I could.

"Yes, Joann. I'm happy. I've never been happier."

She dropped my hand. "Good," she said and sat down next to me. "So where's the wedding going to be?"

"Hopefully the church on Sixth."

Joann gave a small shriek. "Are you kidding? That place is gorgeous!"

"I thought you're not into weddings and things like that."

"So? I'm still coming to yours for the free food."

"Knowing Mr. Jameson, it's probably going to be crackers and B.Y.O.C."

"What's that?"

"Bring your own cheese."

She slapped my arm. "What did we say about bad jokes?"

"Leave them to you?"

"Exactly." She began to stand. "Come on, we gotta get ready."

I looked up at her. "One more thing."

"Yea?"

"Will you be my maid of honor?"

Joann stared at me for a few seconds, then, while shrieking several different incoherent versions of "yes", squeezed me hard enough to pop my spine.

oOo

"I'm not wicked at all. You mustn't think that I'm wicked, cousin Cecily."

Head still filled with happy memories and joyful hopes, I spoke my lines through the first few scenes as if in a daze. Though I still enjoyed the stage as much as ever, for once I couldn't wait for it to end so I could sink once more into my happy dream.

"If you are not," I said, trying to keep my eyes from glazing over, "then you have certainly been deceiving us all in a very inexcusable manner. I hope you have no been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time. That would be hypocrisy."

I blinked. Something out of the corner of my eye was making my heart pound. I glanced briefly toward the audience and immediately missed the next line.

Peter.

It would seem that he has picked up the habit of appearing at the most unexpected of time. Even in the dim light of the theater, I thought I could see the color of his eyes as he smiled at me and mouthed, "hi."

"I am glad..." Someone whispered.

I kept staring at him, wondering whether this was a dream or a nightmare. But here was no denying that I felt myself smiling back at him.

"I am glad..."

Peter gave me a slight nod and I composed myself. Robby was gesturing frantically offstage and feeding me my line. "Algernon" was staring at me.

"Are you glad to hear it?" he asked.

Tearing my attention away from the audience, I answered, "I am glad," then added awkwardly, "to hear it."

Robby threw his hands up into the air, angry but relieved. I was going to hear about this later.

oOo

And hear about it I did. Or rather, theoretically I did, standing there as Robby ranted, spit flying. He was saying something about the dangers of botching the last, most important performance, or slipping up in front of critics, or something about soaking his head in a bucket of turpentine. I couldn't tell which and I didn't care. I was hoping.

All throughout closing and changing out of my costume I hoped and then berated myself for hoping, then hoped again. Thankfully, Joann had slipped out early and did not notice my inattention. But nor was there to knock some sense into my as I went about my vicious cycle of hoping berating. It was silly. I should not hope. Hoping was what had gotten me into trouble so many times.

I told myself I should know better.

By the time I was ready to leave for the night, I had nearly successfully convinced myself that seeing Peter in the audience at all tonight had been a trick of the light. Nothing special, I told myself. There is no room for Peter Parker anymore.

But he was there. I pushed open the backstage exit and walked onto the street, only to be stopped by the all-too-family voice.

"Hey."

I turned around and felt the involuntary smile on my face. It was almost embarrassing. He was leaning against the theater wall, wearing a dark jacket and a warm smile.

"Hey," I returned. He pushed himself off the wall and came to my side.

"Are you surprised?"

I nodded. "A little."

He gazed down the street. "Where are you headed?"

"Taxi," I replied, pointing the opposite direction of where he looked. "I usually grab a taxi over there."

"Oh," he said, sounding a little disappointed. "Can I walk with you?"

"Sure," I said, against common sense and better judgment.

oOo

As usual, the city was alive at night, even the corner streets and hidden allies. Instead of taking my usual route, I let Peter around a block through a slightly more secluded street behind the theater. But even this failed to give us any pretense of peace and privacy. The air was thick with neon light, New York accents, and exhaust fumes from taxi cabs. None of this seemed to bother Peter, however, as he chatted anxiously about the play.

"You were wonderful," he gushed, "that was such a great play."

I felt my cheeks warm slightly. "You could've told me you were coming."

Peter gave me a look that very closely resembled that of an abandoned puppy. "I was afraid you'd say 'don't come'," he admitted.

I started to contradict him, but stopped myself, mainly because I couldn't find any way to prove to myself that he was wrong. I couldn't have imagined myself rejecting his attendance so harshly, but nor would I have welcomed him with open arms.

Still, been around him made me smile.

I snuck a peek at him. "You look different."

He smiled in good humor. "I shined my shoes," he said, "pressed my pants, did my homework. I do my homework now." Studying him, I found myself searching for words. "You wanna get some chow mein?" he asked casually.

I stopped. He did, too. I looked hard into his blue eyes. There wasn't a pair of glasses between us now. He was standing tall, dressed neatly, and hair combed. Everything about him shined, and for the first time in a long while, he looked so vibrant. He looked the way he did when he caught me that day in the high school cafeteria.

"Peter," I said firmly, "I'm getting married."

He must have known what I meant, because he dropped his gaze and kept on walking. I followed.

"I always imagined you getting married on a hilltop," he said.

"And who's the groom?"

The serious gaze he gave me irritated me like an ant crawling up my arm. "You haven't decided yet," he said. I felt myself clench inside at the remark and scoffed.

"You think just because you saw my play you can talk me out of getting married?"

"You once told me you loved me," he said. "I let things get in the way before. There was something I thought I had to do." There was desperation in his voice as he rushed to walk in front of me, trying to look at my face. "I don't have to."

I sighed. "You're too late."

"Will you think about it?" He sounded almost as if he was begging. I couldn't stand it.

"Think about what?" I snapped.

"Picking up where we left off."

"Where was that?" I said, hearing the irritation in my own voice. "We never got on. You can't get off if you don't get on, Peter!" I walked in front of him, either to avoid his eyes or to escape my own feelings, which I was becoming less sure of by the minute.

"I don't think it's that simple."

"Of course you don't," I told him pointedly. "Because you complicate things."

"You don't understand," he said ernestly, stopping in his tracks. "I'm not an empty seat anymore. I'm different. Punch me, I bleed." He spoke in such a way, almost as if pleading with me to hit him, just to prove how human he was.

We looked at each other, something we seemed to do an awful lot whenever too many unspoken words hung in the air. In the end, I sighed. "I have to go."

Without waiting for him to protest or say goodbye, I trotted across the street to the nearest taxi. "I'm getting married in a church," I told him, stopping at its door. He just stared, face unreadable. I opened the car door. "You are different."

On the way home I wept. They were silent tears that fell in a stream. I couldn't decide whether it was because I was happy, or sad, or angry, or because some great injustice had been done to my scarred heart once again. I searched my mind to give the tears a reason and found none.

The taxi driver kept asking if I was OK. I told him I had something in my eye.

oOo

For several days after my encounter with Peter, I contemplated on how exactly the universe works, and whether there was really some great, cruel joke been played on me by whatever divine figure it was that controlled life. It was a childish, self-absorbed thought. But everyone deserved one of those every now and then.

I stayed away from several social events hosted by the Bugle, feeling guilty at having to leave John to attend them alone. But the desire to avoid seeing Peter had won out in the end. I took walks in the mornings and was visited unexpected by Joann once. For the first time since our friendship began, I kept a secret from her. She never found out about Peter's presence at the play.

After a brief interruption, it appeared that my life had once again returned to normality. I settled into my usual routine of planning out the rest of my life, one where there would be more dinners in a safe, quiet home and less excitement. Or so I thought until I bumped into the landlord onto the stairs.

"Excuse me," I mumbled, and tried to push past.

"Watch yourself," the landlord grunted. He was an overweight man with beady eyes that darted this way and that, watching his tenants carefully like an obese rat. "Careful on them stairs. I know you're marrying rich. I'll sue you if you push me off."

I rolled my eyes and squeezed past him on the narrow staircase, only to start when I came face to face with someone else.

"Oh, excuse me, dear," the person said, then regarded me with the same shocked look I was giving me.

"Oh great," the landlord said impatiently. "Get going, girly. I'm showing apartments here. Some people have business to do."

But I couldn't move as the elderly woman laid a comforting hand on my should and smiled at the landlord. "Maybe not today," she said apologetically. "I've got to get aquainted with an old friend."

And with that, Aunt May took my hand and led me away from the landlord before he started fuming.

oOo

"Why are you looking at apartments, Aunt May?"

She was turning her coffee cup from one hand to the next, not touching the liquid inside. It was a guesture of nervousness. I poured myself a cup and joined her at the kitchen table.

"Well," she said at last, "seems the reasonable thing to do, now that they're forclosing the house and all."

I nearly dropped my own cup. "What?"

"I can't make anymore payments, dear," she said with a wane smile, "not on my own, and God knows Peter is strapped enough for money for himself. I'm looking for a cheaper place to live."

"Oh, Aunt May..."

"Don't you feel sorry for me," she said firmly, but in good humor. "Feeling sorry does no one good. That's what I told myself when Ben died, you know. We all have to be strong. These things happen."

I nodded. "Does Peter know?"

"I haven't told him. I don't want him stressing himself over this. You know that boy. He blames himself for everything. Besides"--she sipped the coffee--"I can take care of myself. I'm not senile yet."

Unable to picture Aunt May senile, I smiled. She returned it.

"Besides," she continued, "having life closer to the city will be more exciting. I've had quite a bit of excitement in my recently." She gave me a strange, mischivous wink. "Have I told you I was saved by the resident web-slinger?"

The words had an impact, though I tried not to let it show. "Spiderman?"

"Oh yes," she said. "Peter and I were at the bank and that awful man, that Doctor Octopus or whatever they call him, showed up. It was such a shock and I had to hide under a table. Then Spiderman came, out of nowhere. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!" She made gestures with her hands as she spoke. I watch with amusement as she described her experience of falling from a twenty-story building and triumphantly declare that she had made the "awful man" sorry he ever messed with her.

"That Spiderman," she said in the end, "I never really thought much of him before. I didn't think either way of him really, except that Peter would probably do better to stay away from the dangers that man got himself into. I even thought that maybe he really was a menace, like all those newspapers keep calling him. But now..." she gazed into the streets thoughtfully. "Now I really know what a hero looks like. It's a humbling experience, Mary Jane. I'm sure you know what I mean. Not many people swing around saving the young girls that need it, not to mention the old girls like me."

It was a subject I had not dwelled on in a long time. My mind flashed back to the last time I had a copy of the Bugle in the apartment and found it too long ago.

"He's something," I agreed.

"That's why I hope the rumors are false."

I blinked. "Rumors?"

"You haven't heard? It's everywhere."

"You mean about him been a menace," I guessed. "I never believed in those myself."

Aunt May shook her head. "Not those, dear," she said. "That's old news. There's rumors in the streets that he's disappeared. Have you noticed? There hasn't been a single story about him in days, not even a sighting. More people are getting mugged in the streets and they're starting to talk, saying he's given up, or left, or even dead."

An uneasy weight dropped inside my chest. I shifted in my chair uncomfortably. "That can't be true, can't it? How can he die?"

"A man like that has many enemies."

"But he must also have friends."

Aunt May sipped her coffee again and I could see the same desperate hope in her eyes. I said nothing further on the subject.

"You and Peter haven't seen each other in quite a while," she said after a while, and I knew that Peter hadn't told her about our encounter. "I don't know if he will ever have more chances to see your play. Or has he already? I can't keep these things straight anymore."

I bit my lip. "He came," I said. "He came a couple of days ago."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How did he like it?"

"He loved it," I said with an embarrassed chuckle, "but that's what everyone says isn't it? No one's going to come to a play then tell one of the actors they hated it."

Aunt May shrugged. "You never know. Did you and Peter get a chance to talk?"

"Just a bit," I said, trying to keep the conversation from leading where it shouldn't. "So how much longer before you move?"

"Not long," she said, "not long. Tell you what, dear, you should come by one last time. Come by and see Peter and me in the old place. It's got memories. God knows they're not all wonderful but enough of them are."

I started to say I don't know, but she reached across the table and laid her weathered hand on mine.

"One last time, dear. For old time's sake."

Unable to escape the sincerity in her eyes, I could only nod.

oOo

As soon as Aunt May's bus departed, I broke into a run for the first newspaper stand I saw and picked up a copy of the Bugle. For the first time, the cover did not include the bright red and blue that had almost becomes its trademark. It ran a title article about food poisoning. Something about rancid chicken in a downtown restaurant. I flipped to the next page. Nothing. Another page, still nothing. He really had vanished.

"Hey!"

I looked up. The owner of the stand, a buck-toothed man in a tattered pea-green coat was glaring at me through yellow, washed-down eyes. Were he on the streets, he would easily be mistaken for a hobo. Then again, there was no guarantee that he wasn't.

"This ain't no library!" He said, spitting as he did. "Buy it or lose it."

"Oh, um," I stammered and searched my pockets. Unfortunately, there was nothing of value in them. I began to drop the paper. "I'm sorry."

"It's on me."

I raised my head. The stand's owner hadn't spoken. A hand tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to face the newcomer. He was smiling at me, but without warmth. I knew a stage smile when I saw one.

"Harry."

He dropped a five on the counter and told the man to keep the change. "How are you, M. J.?" he said coolly.

The scene from that unpleasant night in the bar found its way into my head. I told him I was fine. He handed the paper to me, never breaking his steady gaze. The cloth he wore, I noticed, was streeth attire, the kind he had when we were still classmates in high school. But even in a sweatshirt and sneakers, the rigid formality of a business excutive never left him. He stood too straight, and spoke too calmly. Just like his father, I told myself. Just like his father.

"Looking for big news on your hero?" he asked, a silver of bitterness in his tone. "Hate to tell ya but Spiderman seems to have left town. No one's spotted him in a couple of days."

I wrapped the paper tightly in my hand, as if hiding it would get us off the topic. "No," I said, trying to keep my tone light. "Not that. Just checking out the news. There are other stories in this town besides Spiderman."

He scoffed. "Not many." A pause. "So what are you up to nowadays?"

"Just the usual. Mostly the play. Taking a break from photo shoots. What about you?" I regretted the question as soon as it came out of my mouth.

"The same," he said. "Board meetings, trying to win back investor confidence, and trying to convince the entire city as well as myself that Oscorp was never seriously involved in Octavius's experiments. Been a little slow since the incident." He sighed. "Look M. J., about that night, I'm so..."

"Don't," I interrupted him. "I don't need any more sorries. We're still friends. That hasn't changed."

He smiled, a real smile this time. "When did life get so complicated?" he said. "It used to be so easy. Well, maybe not easy, but at some point everything was black and white."

"Nothing's black and white."

"No, I guess not." Harry lifted his head and let his eyes fall on the sun-bathed street. "You know, some things are simple enough though. Sometimes you feel like you have nothing left, except..."

I felt myself twitch as a shadow fell over his face, then lifted quickly.

"Never mind," he said. "You take care of yourself."

Watching him walk away, I felt as if he was heading into a dark cloud, pulling away from me. "Wait!" I called.

He stopped. "Yea?"

"You're coming to my wedding, aren't you?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."


End file.
